


Our Homeward Step (was just as light)

by SpinnerDolphin



Series: Angel Network [5]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV), Murder Mysteries - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Azirapahle hates cases, Aziraphale POV, F/M, He's still recovering from Naomi, M/M, casefic, he just wants to go home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2020-11-24 00:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 61,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpinnerDolphin/pseuds/SpinnerDolphin
Summary: Aziraphale wants to go home. This is far too much stress for someone still struggling with some rather terrible aftereffects.But there is yet another escapee from Nightmare World on the loose in LA (And he doesn't precisely blame Lucifer, but--let's be truthful - the holes are in Hell, after all, and Lucifer has yet to close them). It's in connection with one of Detective Decker's cases, wherein the snakes are behaving terribly oddly and-- truth be told--he is quite worried about Crowley.Crowley insists that he is fine. He is not fine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME BACK EVERYONE! Here we deal with some ramifications of Done My Sentence. 
> 
> Before we go any further I wanted to post a TRIGGER WARNING: In this story Aziraphale is still suffering the affects of Naomi. IT GETS PROGRESSIVELY WORSE. His perceptions of the world are off, and they get worse. IF THIS WILL TRIGGER YOU, please skip this story. Shoot me a comment or poke me on Tumblr (I am mostly inactive there, so it might look dead, but I check messages; I go by the same name) and I can give you a summary, if you want to know what happens. 
> 
> That said, he and Crowley have a bunch of good times in this story, too. And Watchdog is the best Hellhound ever, if I do say so myself. :D
> 
> MANY MANY MANY THANKS TO [ Katadactyl ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katadactyl) FOR BETAING THIS!!!!
> 
> Footnotes in this fic are under construction. If you read chapter by chapter they work just fine; but if you show the entire story they'll throw you back to the wrong spot. I'm working on it; I want to get to Done My Sentence first. Bear with me.

Aziraphale was walking Watchdog when it all went strange.

Crowley was in LA. He’d been loath to leave, tucking himself up under Aziraphale’s chin and making a great fuss, but he’d gone in the end, because Raguel was having a nervous breakdown again and he needed company, and even after nearly a year Aziraphale was in no shape to fly across the Atlantic. Besides, it would do Crowley good to see Lucifer again, and for things to go back to normal.

The urge to smite, instinctive and older than time, that begged him to reach for his sword in the face of all that was ungodly, had quieted, though it was still there. To be quite honest, Aziraphale was a little afraid to be near Raguel, lest he be unmade. Naomi’s effect had been strong, and Aziraphale felt—tarnished, even though Crowley crooned to him, nearly nightly, that he was just fine, and that no tarnish could stick.

Aziraphale adored Crowley with all his being. Crowley had brought him back from the brink with utter gentleness and love. His memories were anchored, thanks to Crowley’s unrelenting efforts. They could be apart, now, and Aziraphale still knew who he was—this was his own victory, but Crowley’s aid had been invaluable. But Crowley was a demon, at the end of the day. He _liked_ tarnish and didn’t understand this particular fear. 

He liked St. James. There were memories here, anchoring ones. He remembered when there were animals, poor beasts in their cages. Crowley had gone funny and sad at the reptiles. He and Crowley used to walk by the aviaries, before there were ducks, and then after they’d fed them, for hundreds of years. There were whole generations of ducks[1] that knew them by sight. Aziraphale smiled at the pond and sat on a bench. Watchdog sat with him, chewing thoughtfully on her toy, and they watched the people go by. 

Watchdog was at her adult size, shoulder the height of Aziraphale’s hip, head to his stomach, just a touch larger than a Great Dane. She was a well-behaved companion, staying close even without the leash, and she didn’t engage with the other dogs, really, not unless they came up to her, and even then she was polite. Aziraphale would look down at her from time to time, and she’d catch his eye and wag her tail, lips pulling back in a grin around her rubber llama, which she carried everywhere. She caught his eye now, and he smiled down at her and patted her head. 

And then Adam Young walked up to him.

Aziraphale blinked.

Adam Young was eleven. Adam Young had been eleven for the last thirty years. Adam Young never left Tadfield. He must be hallucinating. He experienced a brief moment of fear and reached back: Garden. Snake. Flood. Mari, Mari, Mari, and his family and their bread. He could never forget Mari; he’d promised Abida as he died, never to forget and he hadn’t. Kings and kings and kings. His sly adversary with the golden eyes, proposing a truce. Rome. Gaul. Kings and queens. England and London. Wars. Crowley. Ducks. The end of the world, and after. He remembered. He wasn’t going mad.

Watchdog growled, a fearsome Hellhound growl. Her ears, which had gone pointy in the last month or so, laid back against her skull[2]. She shouldn’t growl, but he was glad she could see Adam, too.

At Adam’s heels as always, Dog, a strange Jack Russel mix of Hellhound that Adam only knew, growled back. Watchdog flinched into Aziraphale, but otherwise didn’t back down, brave girl. Well. There was that. Aziraphale sighed.

“Adam,” he said, stroking Watchdog’s head, soothing her. “What brings you to London? Your parents must be worried.”

“There was a demon in my bedroom,” Adam said crossly. He folded his arms. “When I told it to go away, it wanted to know where my father was. I said, I said my dad was none of its business but then _it _said no, my real father, my devil father. And then I said, the devil didn’t show up to any of my birthday parties and that meant he wasn’t my father, but then the demon said that didn’t matter and I couldn’t deny my heritage and then I kicked him out of my room.” He glared at Aziraphale. “Why was there a demon in my room?”

Aziraphale blinked. He looked down at Watchdog, who looked puzzled. He supposed she hadn’t followed any of that, either.

“I don’t know, Adam,” Aziraphale said, at last. “Did you catch its name? The demon, I mean.” 

“Asteroth,” Adam said. “Grand Archduke something something I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That is concerning,” Aziraphale said. “Come sit, my dear boy. I’ll call Crowley. Watchie, my dear, be kind to Dog. He’s just like you.”

“Dog’s much better,” Adam told Aziraphale seriously. “Smaller. Can fit in better places.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “I’m sure. Watchdog is a Hellhound, too, you see.”

Adam made a thoughtful noise. He walked up to Watchdog and offered his hand. Watchie glanced at Aziraphale, saw that he wasn’t alarmed, and then sniffed politely. Adam patted her head.

“She’s really big,” he said. He smiled. “They’ll be good friends. Right Dog?”

Dog barked. He bowed to Watchdog, a playful gesture. Watchdog looked at Aziraphale, eyes huge.

“Go on,” Aziraphale chuckled. “I’m sure he has quite a lot to teach you.”

Carefully, she placed her llama in his lap and looked at him imploringly before taking a few hesitant steps toward Dog. Dog barked excitedly—and they were off, racing across the pathway together, an oversized Beauceron and a Jack Russel mutt. Adam sat next to Aziraphale.

“What happened to you?” he asked, concerned. “Your head’s all funny.”

“You could say that,” Aziraphale sighed. He took the sticky llama off his lap and placed it on the bench between them. “There was an angel from the wrong world, you see,” he told Adam. “She—I’m still not sure, to be truthful, my boy. She tried to remove my memories.”

“That’s awful,” Adam gasped. “But you beat her, right?”

“Mostly.” Aziraphale smiled at him sadly. “I think she went home. I’m still—a little off-kilter, I’m afraid.”

Adam shook his head. He took Aziraphale’s hand and looked earnestly into his eyes. “Can I fix it? Dad explained to me about consent and I really liked it. I want to ask from now on. Can I fix it?”

Aziraphale looked down at the boy, who was not really a boy. He really was quite fond of Adam. There was, of course, the urge to slaughter him with a flaming sword, but that was an urge from more than 8,000 years ago – from before the Rebellion, before Lucifer’s Fall even—and he put it to one side.

Yes, he wanted this nonsense over, Naomi’s mark gone, desperately. But he absolutely could not tolerate Adam mucking about with his thoughts. There had been quite enough of that. “I think I can fix it myself, dear boy. The long way round. Thank you for asking. It’s greatly appreciated.”

The Antichrist nodded, satisfied. He kicked his heels and watched the dogs play.

Watchdog was on her back, barking gleefully at Dog, who was trying to wrestle with one of her enormous paws. She batted at him, tongue lolling with delight. Aziraphale smiled at them.

“This business with Asteroth is quite disturbing,” he said at last. “I can call Crowley, if you like. He’s in LA.”

“Isn’t that in America? What’s that got to do with it?” Adam asked.

He doesn’t know, Aziraphale realized.

“Lucifer has been living there for quite some time now,” he said gently.

Adam’s eyes widened in horror. “What?”

“It’s alright, my dear. He’s not hurting anyone. Or messing them about, as you’d say.” He smiled at Adam, trying to reassure. “I promise. He simply dislikes Hell[3]. But if Asteroth is causing trouble, he’ll be able to bring him back in line. Shall I call Crowley? I think Crowley is staying with him, in fact.”

Adam frowned. “He doesn’t want me to end the world?” he asked, somewhere between nervous and firm.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he said gently. “In fact,” he added, leaning in conspiratorially, “He’s fallen in love. With a human woman. She has a daughter around your age.”

Adam blinked. “They can’t make another baby,” he said firmly. “You’ll just get another me.”

That—was something Aziraphale had not considered. “Then I believe we must warn them, yes? May I call Crowley?”

Adam nodded.

Aziraphale did have a cell phone, in fact. It looked like a large beetle and he disliked it immensely. In the warmth and quiet of the bookshop, Crowley had sat in his lap and laughed, gently, as he showed him how to open and close it, how to call numbers. “It’s an old flip-phone, angel,” Crowley had teased. “I got you something old, okay? Nothing fancy. Promise. But when you go out on your own, I need to be able to contact you.”

It wasn’t unreasonable, really. Aziraphale was having memory problems. He’d accepted it with minimal fuss, and Crowley had run fingers through his hair, preening, affectionate.

Old or not, the phone was terrible. Aziraphale flipped it open. He stared at the screen. It was black.

“You gotta turn it on,” Adam said, helpfully. “Here.” He took the phone and pushed some unfathomable button. In front of them, Watchdog pounced on her new friend and chewed on his ear while he squirmed delightedly.

There weren’t any messages. This was because Crowley knew to call the land line, rather than the mobile, but it was still a little disappointing.

“Call Crowley,” Aziraphale told the flip-phone[4], and Adam giggled.

“That’s not how it works!” he said, eyes twinkling, but he let the miracle happen because it wasn’t hurting anyone.

Aziraphale put the thing to his ear. It rang.

It rang, and rang and rang and he had a moment of worry before Crowley picked up.

“Angel!” he said over something very loud and thumping in the background. “One sec! BOSS!” The last was a bellow. “CAN YOU DO A SET OR SOMETHING IT’S TOO BLOODY LOUD!”

A rustle. A thump. “Oh,” Crowley said. The loud music was gone. “Huh. Yeah, that’s much better. Sound dampeners around the bar, huh? That’s neat.”

“Where on earth are you?” Aziraphale blurted.

“Would you believe I got roped into bartending at Lux?” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could hear the scowl in his voice. “Apparently, they’re short staffed tonight, and Lucifer said he hasn’t had a demon serving drinks since Mazikeen left. As if being a demon somehow means you make better drinks. I mean, I remember drinks from an age ago, but still!”

Aziraphale smiled. It was good to hear his voice. “It sounds like you’re having fun, dear.”

“Are you kidding? It’s bloody terrible!” Crowley said, in the tone that meant he was having fun.

“How is Raguel?” Aziraphale asked.

“Chatting with one of Lucifer’s dancers,” Crowley said.

“What?” blurted Aziraphale.

“Yep.” Crowley popped the P. “She’s a theater major, an excellent dancer, and lonely, apparently. I think they’re really hitting it off.”

“Crowley!”

Crowley laughed. “Relax, I’m keeping an eye on it. I think it’s genuine. He just got lonely, angel. He seems fine, now. None of Lucifer’s humans are in here tonight, and Maze is across the city. Boss already did his set, now he’s staring at me from across the bar. Angel Network,” he added, apparently to Lucifer. “You do stuff for Angel Network.”

If he replied, Aziraphale couldn’t hear. “But you’re alright,” Aziraphale said softly.

“Course! I’m at Lux. Safe as can be. What about you?” he asked, concerned. “You okay? Where are you? Is Watchdog with you?”

“She’s with me.” Aziraphale smiled, glancing at the dogs playing in the grass. Dog had Watchdog pinned, now. “I’m at St. James. I’m fine, dear.”

“Can you give me three things?” Crowley asked, now working himself into a state. Aziraphale sighed.

“Abida and his bread,” Aziraphale replied dutifully, because he’d been thinking about Mari; Mari was his best, most beloved anchor, besides Crowley, “You saved me from the guillotine during the French Revolution, my dear, and—” he reached; only one of the three could be about Crowley. “Dear Oscar.”

Crowley blew out a breath. “You and Oscar Wilde. I can’t believe I slept through that. Okay. Thanks.” He sounded relieved. The Three Things game was just a check in: it was a list of three things at random that Aziraphale could remember. They had to be during different points of history and, of course, only one of them could involve Crowley. It had helped a great deal early in his convalescence; now, it mostly made poor Crowley feel better.

“There is one thing though,” Aziraphale said, glancing at Adam. Adam looked amused.

“What is it,” Crowley said in a tone that meant, _we’re doomed. _He wasn’t entirely wrong. 

“Well.” Aziraphale glanced at Adam again. Adam made a _get on with it_ gesture. “Adam Young is sitting with me, my dear.”

“_What?_” blurted Crowley. “But he doesn’t leave Tadfield! Yes, I said Tadfield,” he added.

“What?” Aziraphale said. He looked at the phone suspiciously.

“No, not you, boss is asking questions, hold on—No. No, I’m getting the rest of the story. Sit—down!” There was a short silence. Aziraphale imagined his lovely demon glaring down the Devil and felt a little thrill.

“Okay,” Crowley said. “Tell me. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, dear, only it seems that the demon Asteroth appeared in his bedroom, looking for Lucifer,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Oh,” said Crowley weakly. “That’s bad. Okay, boss, he says that Asteroth showed up in Adam’s bedroom looking for you.”

Sound dampeners or whatever Crowley’d blathered about or no, Aziraphale still heard Lucifer’s thunderous, “WHAT??” on the other end of the line.

“I said—” Crowley started.

_“Yes I know what you said,” _Lucifer’s voice said; he must have stormed closer to Crowley. _“Give me the phone.”_

“What? No!” Crowley spluttered, brave love, though he had by now lost much of his fear of Lucifer. So had Aziraphale. Lucifer had sent them chocolates during Aziraphale’s convalescence; that rather soothed quite a lot of fear, chocolate, especially quality chocolate. “I’m not going to let you bully Aziraphale into giving information he doesn’t have! He’s—he’s still healing, boss, leave him be—”

Next to him, Adam sighed. “We should probably go over there,” he told Aziraphale, amused.

Aziraphale shifted his weight. “I—don’t wish to fly that far, my dear,” he murmured. Over the phone, he could hear Crowley and Lucifer squabbling. “I don’t think I can manage it.”

His wings were in fine working order, but it was the sea he was afraid of – those few minutes suspended over blue waves. Long ago and far away, when he’d been just barely older than an eyas[5], the legions had flown drills over a flat plain below, that reflected the light of the Silver City in shivery sparkles. Aziraphale had been a soldier then, and a good one. Cherub, First Class, and he could—and had—taken down a shadowbeast all on his own, without help. He’d sliced it clean through with his sword and felt only satisfaction that he’d defended the City from the Darkness. Aziraphale hadn’t known he’d hated it until he sat at the Eastern Gate in the shade of a yet-unnamed tree, and sighed in the cool breeze for the first time. The sea was too similar, sparkling blue horizon to horizon. He wasn’t sure he’d come out the same, on the other side.

Adam thought about this. “I could bring you over,” he offered. “Quick as a snap, and you’ll be with Crowley. If you want,” he added. “Usually I don’t like to use it, but this seems kinda important.” he scratched his nose. “I’ll bring you back too.”

Aziraphale looked out at Watchdog and Dog wrestling. “Lucifer won’t be pleased to see you,” he said softly.

“Well, I wasn’t pleased to see Asteroth,” Adam huffed.

Aziraphale chuckled. “Fair.” He thought about it. He disliked being left behind, while Crowley was off on his own, in LA. He was perfectly capable of being apart from Crowley, and had been, in fact, for more than a week. This was a victory. But he missed him, and the distant part of him inside clamored, not for Crowley’s destruction, but to protect him. Crowley was just a little snake, really. He needed protection. And if Asteroth was about… “I'll want my dog with me,” he said softly.

Adam looked positively scandalized. “I would never leave her behind!”

Aziraphale nodded. “Watchdog,” he called softly. “Watchdog.”

Watchie lifted her head off the grass. She was on her back again and Dog had one of her long ears in his mouth. Her jaws were wide open, tongue lolling. Her eyes sparkled at Aziraphale.

“Come here, my dear,” he chuckled. It was good to see her having fun. 

She shook Dog off and trotted up to him. Aziraphale got to his feet. He patted her head and offered her the llama back. She took it.

He took a deep breath and nodded to Adam.

Adam didn’t even snap his finger. He blinked.

______________

[1] And at least one line of swans.

[2] This was somewhat negated by the rubber llama in her mouth.

[3] Though truth be told, Aziraphale was fairly certain he was _avoiding_ Hell. It wasn’t his business, of course, and Crowley would call him a nosey parker, but Islington’s damage was still Down There, wasn’t it? Oughtn’t he go back? Not his business, not his business. 

[4] The flip phone was just a flip phone, circa the early 2000s. It definitely did not have Siri, or any kind of voice recognition. Aziraphale was both deeply behind, and ahead of his time, all at once.

[5] Angels are born fully grown. Mostly. They need to fledge, or grow their feathers, so they spend some time as an awkward teenager. Eyas are unfledged, but eyas of the Cherub caste are trained. Once they can fly, they are trained harder.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale was plunged into blue light and noise and moving bodies. The light dimmed and changed wildly, flashing purple, and it was deeply disorienting. He sucked in another breath to feel it in his lungs, grounding, Earth Earth Earth; he was surrounded by humans. Nothing to smite here.

Watchdog whined, and someone yelped.

“Aw, man, is that a dog?” A man, well-dressed, jumped back, and shouted over the pounding noise that must have been, in some universe, music. “There aren’t any dogs allowed in here?”

“We’re lookin’ for the bar,” Adam shouted and came up alongside Aziraphale. He took his hand, and it shouldn’t have been as comforting as it was. Aziraphale took another breath. Steadier, he looked around.

Lux, Lucifer’s bar, was lit from above by dim, circular bulbs that were more for show than anything else. It was filled to the brim with writhing bodies, an absolute den of iniquity, and blue and purple lights strobed through the crowd. The music was godawful and it pounded in his belly. Aziraphale hated it immediately and viscerally. What on Earth was Crowley doing in a terrible place like this?

The strange man was flailing, and Aziraphale did not have the patience for this. “Watchdog,” he said sharply. “Find your demon.” 

Watchdog threw back her enormous head and bayed like a Hellhound. Bulbs cracked, people screamed, and the music squealed. Sparks flew from above dramatically.

The entire club screeched to a halt. 

“That was silly,” Adam said crossly from his side, into the abrupt silence.

“_Angel!_”

Aziraphale turned just in time to see Crowley vault over lavish bar and dash over.

“Really,” Lucifer bit out into the silence. “_Really_? You _had_ to bring the Hellhound into my club? It’s alright! It’s alright,” he called to the partygoers. “Her name is Watchdog and her bark is—well, no, but she won’t bite you.”

Watchie slammed into Crowley before he’d reached Aziraphale. Her great front paws reached his shoulders when she leaped on him, and she dropped her llama to lick his face, uncaring about the sunglasses. He permitted it, laughing, and he scratched the great hound’s neck and sides.

“Yes, hello, you great stupid dog. Yes, you are a good stupid dog. The _smartest_ stupid dog. Did you follow your angel all the way over the ocean? Did you? Are you a good girl?”

“Arf!” said Watchie[1].

“I think you are,” Crowley said. He scratched her neck and she collapsed onto the tasteful wooden floor, asking for belly rubs. Crowley knelt and obliged, grinning. He looked up at Aziraphale, smile widening in delight. Happy to see him, of course, whatever the circumstance. Aziraphale’s stomach warmed.

His darling, remarkable demon. Such a heart, in Crowley.

_Such a heart, _he told that part of himself that wanted to slay the monster. Cold and distant, the memory of drills and drills and drills and blood and drills agreed that if it had a heart, Crowley could never be a monster. That old part of himself went a little giddy when Aziraphale reminded it, again, that Crowley belonged to him. As a Cherub, Aziraphale had only ever had his sword to call his own, and he had never really liked his sword. As a Principality, Aziraphale had always had Crowley. If only for that, the demotion was worth it. 

Towing Adam and Dog, Aziraphale made his way over to him.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured. He knelt and rested a hand on Watchie’s ribcage.

Crowley reached out and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek. “You idiot,” he said tenderly.

The old warrior in Aziraphale sighed and tucked its wings up to roost, weary and wanting the affection. He leaned heavily into Crowley’s hand.

“Alright, get up,” said another voice.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and saw Samael, the Light Bringer—no—he blinked—Satan, the Eternal Adversary, King of Hell—no—Lucifer Morningstar, who liked humans, and owned this awful nightclub, and was part of Angel Network. All safe.

All _safe, _for goodness’ sake. He leaned again into Crowley’s hand, trying to find that comfort again, to soothe the old instincts to fight. Obligingly, Crowley stroked his cheek with a thumb. It helped.

“Get up,” Lucifer said again. “You’re ruining the party. You can come upstairs if you want a sex reunion or—I don’t know—if you want to paradox or something but you can’t just stay here.”

“So do I call you dad, father, or Lucifer?” Adam bit out abruptly, apparently unable to stand it anymore.

Crowley, still cupping Aziraphale’s cheek, went very still. Aziraphale experienced the strongest urge to protect that he’d experienced in years. He made himself keep still, too.

Lucifer blinked at Adam. “Adam Young,” he said slowly. “What are you doing here?”

Adam crossed his arms. At his ankles, Dog was growling. “You were squabbling with Crowley and I got bored,” he said. “Asteroth showed up in my bedroom and that’s bad for my whole family, and Tadfield. I brought Aziraphale here to talk to you.”

Lucifer pursed his lips. “Upstairs,” he said, “Now.” He looked at Crowley and Aziraphale and their dog. “You too.”

That was an order. Aziraphale felt himself start to bristle, because he took no orders from Satan, and neither did his Crowley.

“Steady, he’s just freaked out. He reverts to type when he’s freaked out.” Crowley murmured softly. He took away his hand and pulled his sunglasses down his nose, so he could peer over their rims. “Look at me.”

His eyes were golden yellow, and familiar as sunrise. Aziraphale swallowed, and he grounded himself with those eyes. Crowley was not his commanding officer. He listened to Crowley out of choice, and it was the best choice, every time. “_Not an order,_” he said, and hissed at himself, because that was in Enochian. English. He needed to speak English. This was entirely absurd.

“No,” Crowley said, in English. “Not an order. Tell your dog to get up, yeah? Let’s go see what the boss has to say.”

English. Watchdog only understood English[2].

“Up, my dear,” Aziraphale managed, looking down at his dog. “We have somewhere to be, it seems.”

Watchie rolled over and bounced to her feet, wagging her tail, eyes earnest and brown. She scooped up her llama.

“Blasted llama,” Crowley said, getting to his feet as well. “You’re a Hellhound, you know. It’s very undignified.” Playfully, he tried to tug it from her mouth. She chomped down so it squeaked, and he chuckled. They wrestled for a moment. 

“Come on!” Adam said. Dog at his heels, he followed Lucifer to the back, and to the lift.

Aziraphale sighed. He looked back. “Come along, Crowley, Watchdog,” he murmured, and started after the Antichrist.

The strangest part of the whole experience, Aziraphale reflected as the doors closed, was standing in the lift.

Here he was: Aziraphale of the Second Legion of Cherubim, First Class, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Demoted, Principality of the English Subcontinent. To his right was Crowley, formerly Crawly Snake in the Grass, Serpent of Eden, attended by his beloved Hellhound. To his left was Satan, and further was the Antichrist and his loyal Hellhound. How had an angel ended up in such company?

They stood in awkward silence as they lift ascended to the penthouse. Lucifer nearly bolted out when the doors dinged open.

Lucifer’s penthouse was familiar, Aziraphale thought, walking carefully through the lift doors. He’d spent time here—yes. The Leviathan had bitten his wing, and he had stayed here with the lovely Dr. Martin, and then later Detective Decker. It had been terribly painful, but they’d played poker, and they’d laughed a great deal. Aziraphale had won, of course, despite his injured wing. He always won at cards. 

Dog and Watchdog’s claws skittered on his black tiled floor. Watchie looked around uncertainly and slunk close to Crowley, while Dog raced off, fearless, and sniffed under the couch.

“Dog,” Adam sighed, “What’re you doing. _Dog, _you know that’s rude.” He trotted off to retrieve his dog.

“That’s my good girl,” Crowley murmured. He patted Watchdog and she wagged her tail.

“Drinks?” Lucifer asked as both Aziraphale and Crowley instinctively walked over to the bar. “Adam?” he added, louder, “drink?” He slipped behind the bar and started looking at the bottles there. He grasped at something blue tucked carefully in a nook, as if for comfort. 

“Boss, he’s _eleven_,” Crowley sighed.

“Firstly, no he’s not.” Lucifer turned around and gestured with the thing--it looked suspiciously like a dowel[3]. “Secondly, isn’t it your job to tempt people?”

“Set me free,” Crowley sang, loud and amused, and if Aziraphale was not mistaken, that was _banter_. Crowley was bantering with the Devil.

That was terribly confusing, and also Aziraphale felt strangely—jealous. That vicious old soldier in him, the one that killed shadowbeasts, wanted to draw its sword or, or slap Lucifer with a glove, and that was just preposterous. He sidled up to Crowley’s other side. Crowley’s glasses were still rather far down his nose, enough to show off his eyes; he winked at Aziraphale. That helped.

And then the lift doors opened again.

There was a familiar silhouette in the doorway. They’d left Raguel downstairs, Aziraphale realized with a burst of guilt. He staggered out and stopped short.

“Crowley!” blurted Raguel. He took a hesitant step forward. “I didn’t—” he looked around the room. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Stop this nonsense, my dear,” Aziraphale told him softly. He swallowed, and pretended he wasn’t afraid. “Come here. Lucifer, will you pour him a drink, please?”

“Aziraphale!” said Raguel, and Aziraphale was warmed because he sounded genuinely pleased. “I thought you were injured—?”

Watchdog snarled at Crowley’s side, interrupting him. Raguel went very still, and Aziraphale felt a thrill of fear. Raguel was powerless. Mostly. He could not smite Crowley, or Lucifer. Surely, surely he would not smite a dog.

“That’s a Hellhound,” Raguel said.

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “She’s mine. Stop it, Watchie, that’s Raguel. He’s Angel Network. It’s okay. Come say hello.” He led her over, feigning bravery for his dog, when Aziraphale could see he was worried. She whined and followed reluctantly. “I’m sure he’d like to see your blasted llama,” Crowley added. “Go on. Show him.” 

Shyly, Watchie peered out from behind Crowley. She chewed on her llama so it squeaked.

“It’s a very nice llama,” Raguel said gravely. His eyes did not glow. Watchdog’s ears pricked forward hopefully and she wagged her tail.

“I thought so too.” Adam wandered over. “Something funny happened to you, didn’t it?”

Raguel chuckled. He still didn’t glow. “You could say that. You’re the Antichrist.”

“You’re the angel that started everything,” Adam said sadly. “I can tell. Wasn’t your fault, either.”

Raguel’s lip wobbled, shocked and touched to his core; despite appearances, he teetered on madness, and Aziraphale knew that this was a soft spot. “No,” he said, a little thickly. “It wasn’t.”

“That’s awful. Why’s everything got to be so awful?” This was addressed to Aziraphale, plaintive. Aziraphale, who thought things were mostly rather decent, all things considered[4], had no answer.

“Because your grandfather’s a prick, that’s why,” Lucifer said sharply from behind the bar. “What do I give to a forty-going-on-eleven-year-old?”

“I like apple juice,” Adam said. “I still don’t know what to call you.”

Aziraphale watched Watchdog slink off to sniff at Dog, who was rolling on Lucifer’s carpet.

“It’s America. You could use something American,” Raguel said, having recovered a little. “The Aztecs called their fathers Teta.”

Adam cocked his head. “How do you know?”

Raguel smiled. “I’ve been wandering the Americas for most of history, little Antichrist. I liked the Aztecs.”

“Didn’t they do human sacrifices?” Adam asked, outraged.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Raguel said with a shrug. “Their poetry was beautiful and their people full of joy. The Spanish destroyed them utterly. In LA, they walk right past the homeless and that’s kind of a death sentence, too. Humanity’s complicated.”

This gave Adam pause. “I like that,” he said, slowly. “Humanity’s complicated. Leaves room for mistakes.”

“Anyway!” Lucifer said, waving from behind the bar, “Hello! We need to talk about Asteroth before he blows something up.”

“What about Pa,” said Adam thoughtfully. “Like a cowboy.”

“Hated the cowboys,” muttered Crowley. “Way too much manure, you have no idea.”

“But it’s too close to dad,” Adam continued. “Old man?”

Lucifer groaned. “If you start calling me old man, I’m going to disown you.”

“Already did that, old man,” Adam chirped.

“Can we please talk about Asteroth?”

“Pop,” Adam tried, popping the last P. “Maker. Create-or.” The last he kind of made into two words, tasting it. “I’ll think of something. Asteroth showed up in my bedroom looking for you.” He glared at Lucifer. “Make him go away.”

“_With pleasure,_” Lucifer said, exasperated. He pushed forward a glass with ice in it. It looked like Scotch. “Take your bloody juice.”

Adam skipped up to the bar and took it. He sniffed it and made a satisfied noise before sipping. “Thanks.”

Lucifer scowled. “Crowley? Aziraphale? Raguel?” He said Raguel’s name like it tasted of salt.

“I’m more of a beer fellow, to be honest,” Raguel said.

Wordlessly, Lucifer clunked something that looked Belgian in front of Raguel. Raguel took it curiously.

“Wine for Aziraphale and me,” Crowley said softly. “Red?” He glanced back at Aziraphale, glasses still low enough to see his eyes.

Aziraphale hummed and came up beside him, brushing shoulders. Crowley brushed back, clearly pleased to see him, despite everything.

The wine was good enough, Aziraphale supposed, sniffing it when Lucifer passed him a glass, but the year was off. He made to mention it when Crowley rolled his eyes at him, smirking like he knew just what Aziraphale was going to say[5]. Aziraphale scowled at him and he laughed.

“Come on,” Crowley said. He tilted his head to one side and Aziraphale followed him to a carpeted sitting area, beyond a large grand piano. He wondered if Lucifer played it.

“He does,” said Crowley softly, following his eyes. “Quite well, actually.” When Aziraphale sat beside him of a sofa, feeling a little puzzled, Crowley laughed and scooted so he was sitting pressed close to him. “It’s all over your face, angel,” he said. He sipped his wine, amused.

Aziraphale pushed the glasses back up his nose with one careful finger and didn’t comment. Crowley chuckled. Lucifer strolled over and leaned on the arm of the sofa, on Crowley’s left side. He sipped on a tumbler of Scotch.

“Adam,” he said flatly. “Do you remember anything else about Asteroth?”

Juice in hand, Adam collapsed in the floor next to Dog and Watchie. “Just that he was there,” Adam scowled. “And he wanted you.”

“He was _truly_ there,” Lucifer said. “Not a projection, or a shadow or a voice. Sometimes he looks like a dragon. He looked like a man?”

“Tall,” Adam said. “Blonde. Funny scales on his chin, and he wore a crown that looked like a snake.”

“Then he’s on the mortal plain,” Lucifer said, blowing out a breath as though relieved. “Which means we can find him. Up for it, Watchdog?”

Watchdog whined and rolled onto her back, a very clear _no. _Adam laughed.

“She’s a guard dog, boss, not a tracker,” Crowley said lightly. “She can try, but it won’t be very good.”

“We could Summon him,” Aziraphale said, drawing a finger around the top of his glass. It sang a soft, pure note.

“Not unless it’s straight from Hell,” Crowley murmured. On the other side of the room, Raguel had buried his nose in his beer and was studiously, guiltily ignoring them. 

“Just call him,” Adam said crossly. “He’s looking for you. He’ll come.” 

__________

[1] Watchie was not stupid. She knew she was not stupid. Even Master Crowley knew she wasn’t stupid. But sometimes, she got her head stuck in things, like under the sofa in the bookshop, and Master Crowley would laugh and laugh and help her out of it. She figured it was good that he was laughing.

[2] Not true; she also understood Lilum, but she didn’t like it, and they never used it.

[3] It was a dowel. It was his dowel, made of blue-green glass that he’d blown himself. The idea of blowing glass had tickled him enough to try it. Chloe didn’t have feathers, and dowels were not sex toys (usually; there had been a few lovely creative nights), but he’d made one anyway. He liked it. Sometimes, she let him use it to fix her hair, if they weren’t leaving the penthouse. He’d cover it in little blonde braids, and it held fast, decorative. It was the closest he could get to preening with a human and it made his stomach go warm, warm, warm. 

But there were nights where he gazed at her back and wished with all his heart that she had wings. Not Dad-given wings because those were horrid, and Lucifer himself would never, ever force them on her, never, but just—wings, so he could take care of them properly.

[4] He’d lost his memory but got it back! He had Crowley and a dog! There were books and tea and sushi and the world hadn’t ended thirty years ago. Naomi got away and Heaven still rather wanted to pinion him, but that was Heaven, and this was Earth. Earth was grand. 

[5] He did. Nothing Lucifer ever gave Aziraphale was going to be good enough, because he was Lucifer and Aziraphale was, at his heart of hearts, a bastard. Crowley thought this was hilarious. Angel would take a glass from a despot and talk about it for years, but heaven forbid Lucifer have decent taste in wine. Still. Better not let Lucifer know. Satan was absurdly sensitive about this sort of thing (also hilarious).


	3. Chapter 3

Lucifer frowned down at his son. Aziraphale was about to suggest that this couldn’t hurt, when he belted out, “Asteroth! Oh, Asteroth! Archduke of Hell and My Left Hand, Razer of the Nine Circles – Asteroth!” And he added something in Lilum that made Aziraphale shiver. He’d never learned the Hellish languages, of course. Crowley never even muttered them in his sleep, like Aziraphale sometimes did Enochian. That was reason enough to eschew it altogether. 

“Thy king calls thee to his side,” Crowley translated softly into his ear. “It’s all, like, high speech, you know how it goes. Blah blah face My wrath if thou avoidst Me, Loyal One blah blah now he’s just sucking up—oh, hello—”

Watchdog sat up on the carpet. Dog growled, fierce and low, and Adam scuttled backwards to sit against the far chair, clearing a space. Green and black smoke curled in a circle at the center of the room. It coalesced softly into the Greater Demon Asteroth[1].

Adam was right. He was a tall creature, spindly, with scales on his chin. At the sight of Lucifer his four great green wings spread elegantly. They were bladed, Aziraphale saw – one primary on each forewing, and two on each hindwing was sharp. Long ago and far away, Asteroth had once been a Cherub. He sank to one knee. “Your Highness,” he said, soft and oily. That silver circlet on his golden head, shaped like an ouroboros, glinted in the low light of Lucifer’s flat.

Lucifer sighed audibly. “Asteroth,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“Looking for you, Highness,” murmured Asteroth. He did not rise from his knee, but he glanced up—straight into Aziraphale’s eyes. There was a challenge there, and a kind of glee.

Three warring impulses. Destroy the beast—that was the oldest. Run and hide—that was the middle. Stay close to Crowley and trust in Lucifer to handle his subordinate—that was the newest. He exhaled slowly, and went with the last, and the hardest. Crowley was stock still, viper-still, beside him.

“Why is the Serpent of Eden sitting on your right side, your Highness?” Asteroth asked softly. “Is that not where Mazikeen sits?”

Aziraphale had no idea what he was talking about. Crowley vibrated a little; he clearly did[2].

“You’ve missed a lot,” Lucifer said dryly. “And I’m asking the questions. Where have you been, Grand Archduke Asteroth, if not in Hell?”

“I was in Hell, Highness,” Asteroth purred. He still didn’t rise, wings spread in a bow. They were a lovely color, Aziraphale thought sadly, deep emerald green at the coverts, lightening in color at the primaries. Magnificent, really. He looked the part; everything about him spoke of royalty. But pride goeth before the fall, of course.

“It took some time to realize that it was simply – the wrong one,” Asteroth crooned. He smiled down at the carpet.

“The alternate world,” Lucifer said, cold eyed like a king. “Report, then. What did you find?”

“There is an angel in the room, Highness,” murmured Asteroth.

Two, I’ll think you’ll find, Aziraphale didn’t say. Raguel was behind the demon, nose in his beer. He was shaking. Those wings were beautiful, Aziraphale thought regretfully. Raguel didn’t like the sight of wings; they reminded him of what he had lost. That—was probably very bad.

“The angel is here at my discretion,” Lucifer said sharply. “Speak.”

“Your Highness,” murmured Asteroth. He smiled down at the carpet again. “You have made great strides with our Hell; that one was overrun, and without order, though the imps there were—incredibly, beautifully creative, in their torture of the damned. Our Hell does not scream as sweetly.”

“Do you question my capacity to rule, Archduke?” Lucifer said sharply. Behind Asteroth, Raguel flinched like he was in pain.

“No, Highness, never,” purred Asteroth. “Beyond their Hell, in truth, is where I found the most interesting creatures.”

“Beyond,” echoed Lucifer, all regal grace.

“Theirs is a world filled with monsters, Highness, monsters where each becomes more creative than the last. Such things we could learn from them! New tortures to devise; new souls to acquire! I have brought you my favorite; it sits below, in your nightclub—”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath, as did Lucifer, but it happened before he could even speak.

The silver light that poured from Raguel was blinding. Aziraphale had never actually seen him smite anyone or anything; his power was nearly vanished entirely. Only nearly, though. And with a Function[3] like that—well. Sometimes it came back.

Raguel glowed. He blazed and blazed until it hurt to look at him. Crowley gave a muffled scream and transformed; the little snake dived into Aziraphale’s jumper, and Aziraphale clutched him close. Watchdog galloped across the room to skid to a stop in front of them, snarling like a Hellhound, braver than anything. But Raguel didn’t want them.

Glowing like the moon, silver light spearing out, Raguel walked to Asteroth, calm as anything. Asteroth stared at him.

“Impossible,” he gasped, horrified, because he remembered the Fall, of course, and that was the end. Raguel knelt and took his chin in the crook of his finger. He kissed him. And the light grew brighter and brighter, so bright that Aziraphale closed his eyes, shielding Crowley with his arms, and then it cut out entirely.

Lucifer made a choked sound. “Asteroth?” he rasped like a child, as though shocked.

Aziraphale peeked open his eyes.

Watchdog, valiant creature, was braced in front of him, short fur standing on end and teeth bared. He could see her eyes were closed, but she was growling bravely.

Raguel on the other hand was sitting slack-jawed in his ratty denims, staring at the floor. There was only that silver, ouroboros circlet remaining. The rug was absolutely spotless; nothing left of Asteroth but that circlet. “You can’t bring monsters over,” he whispered. “It’s against the rules. Apparently.” And then he laughed, loud and deranged.

“Asteroth,” Lucifer whispered again. That was real grief in his voice, Aziraphale thought, still cradling Crowley, who was now breathing hard against him. Crowley, who spoke of Hell with such disdain, who hated nearly every other demon to cross his path. Aziraphale had assumed, perhaps foolishly, that Lucifer had hated his subordinates, too.

“Stop it,” Adam said to Raguel. “Stop laughing, he’s sad! Stop it!” He marched up to Raguel and tapped his back with a toe, too gentle to really be considered a kick. “Stop!”

“I could do you too,” Raguel said, laughter cutting off as if by a knife. “I could unmake you.”

There was a short silence. Aziraphale felt a thrill of fear.

“No,” Adam said at last, calm as anything. “You can’t. It isn’t yours, is it?”

Raguel stared at him. He hiccoughed, and then burst into tears.

“No,” growled Lucifer, apparently shaking off his grief. “No. No, you don’t get to cry!” He pushed himself from the chair and stormed up to Raguel, sitting bent and sad on the ground. His great white wings unfurled, the leading edge pointing downwards behind him. Aziraphale flinched back, too-human heart leaping at Devil’s threat display. He wanted to hiss and reciprocate and draw his sword; he wanted to flee. “Are you serious? You just _unmade_ Asteroth! My Asteroth[4]! _That is an act of war!_” The last he bellowed at the crumpled angel, furious, every inch the King of Hell. His feathers trembled.

“No, it isn’t,” Aziraphale found himself saying. Lucifer whirled to him, eyes glowing red and furious. Aziraphale’s sword was within reach; the Cherub he was wanted so badly to slay this beast. He found himself speaking, slowly, instead. Crowley’s serpentine weight was a comfort, and it was grounding. Lucifer’s body language screamed _battle! _but Aziraphale was not, and would never be, Michael. “Raguel no longer belongs to Heaven. He was banished. He’s Angel Network, Lucifer, as are you.” Crowley coiled up Aziraphale’s chest and poked his small green head out of his collar. He slipped out his tongue, but didn’t say anything, instead resting his little serpentine cheek on Aziraphale’s neck, seeking comfort. 

He was scared, Aziraphale thought. Breathing hard and pressing close. If he were man-shaped, he’d be shaking. That old Cherub in him screamed like an eagle. Nothing, nothing at all, was allowed to frighten Crowley. 

“He _unmade_ him!” Lucifer snarled. “He needs to be punished!”

“This _is_ his punishment!” Aziraphale snapped. He fisted his hands and deliberately did not manifest his wings. Watchdog cowered at his waist. “Look at him!”

Raguel had hunched over, still on the ground, fist against his lips and eyes streaming silently. Adam knelt in front of him, patting his shoulder uncertainly.

“It isn’t good enough,” Lucifer spat. “For Asteroth? My Left Hand for millennia? _Unmade like Saraquael?_” He was shaking.

“Don’t blame Raguel, Bosss,” whispered Crowley, still cowering into Aziraphale’s neck. He didn’t sound very convinced. “That’sss Him Above, you know that. Rags can’t control it.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale scolded. Crowley nosed at his neck but didn’t say anything. Their relationship with Him Above, the Lady God was very different, after all. But it was difficult to stay angry with Crowley. He was huffing and puffing, breathing very hard, a sign of fear in a reptile. 

Him Below looked ready to tear Raguel apart. Raguel, who was weeping softly into his fist.

And that, of course, was when the lift doors dinged open. Watchdog barked, just once.

Detective Chloe Decker, looking prim in a slim jacket and holding a Manilla folder, strode into Lucifer’s flat like she owned it. “Lucifer, I know it’s late, but a body just dropped, and I’ve been told it’s urgent—” She stopped in front of the piano. “Lucifer?” The last was uncertain.

Lucifer’s breath came short. He whirled, his wings loosened from their threat display to fold on his back. The left one twitched outward, an uncertain gesture. Aziraphale had seen Crowley panic enough during his convalescence to know what a sudden attack looked like. The Devil looked at the detective, eyes huge.

“Lucifer,” Aziraphale said. “My Lord Satan. Lucifer.” 

“Not your Lord,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. “Not ever, Aziraphale, not _ever._” He clung tightly around Aziraphale’s neck.

Lucifer swung bright red eyes back to Aziraphale. It struck him to his core, but Crowley was perched on his shoulder, and he drew strength from it. “Raguel does not, and will never, hurt humans.”

“Lucifer.” Detective Decker laid the Manilla folder on the piano and strode over to the stock-still Satan. “Lucifer, what happened?”

Lucifer shook his head, apparently speechless at the sight of her. He trembled harder, panic in his every line.

“Raguel zapped one of his demons and now everyone’s freaking out,” Adam said crossly. “But Asteroth brought a monster from somewhere else and that is clearly against the rules.” He got to his feet and dusted off his knees. “Who’re you?”

“How—how could you just—” Lucifer gasped.

“He was a demon and he was meddling with people,” Adam snapped. “I don’t like it when demons meddle. Or angels, for that matter. You should just let people be people.” He crossed his arms. “Was a bit ex-treme, though,” he added, sadly. He took a step forward and scooped up the circlet. He turned it lightly in his hands. The electric light of Lucifer’s flat glinted off the silver.

Around Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley stopped panting abruptly. He relaxed noticeably, but there was something—unnatural about it.

Aziraphale frowned and petted his little green nose. Crowley shook off that strange stillness and butted up against him. His hold went tense again.

Detective Decker had drifted over to Lucifer, reaching up to put a hand on his arm. He leaned into it, still shivering visibly. His eyes were huge.

“Raguel?” asked Detective Decker. She rubbed his arm. He nodded.

“I see,” she murmured. “Who did—who did he—”

“Asteroth,” he rasped. “My Left Hand, of seven thousand years.”

“Lucifer,” she murmured, horrified, and slipped easily into his arms. He hitched a breath, clutched her tightly, and accepted the affection. She murmured to him; Azirapahle politely tuned them out. He looked down at his demon. 

Since before the Garden, Aziraphale thought. Before the Fall; during the Rebellion, and after. He petted Crowley. Perhaps the idea that there was no love in Hell was a myth after all. Silly angel, he thought, self-deprecating. Crowley was not unique, in his possession of a heart. Look at Lucifer, mourning a creature who had most certainly hurt untold number of souls, and terrified even more, including Crowley. Seven thousand years was a very long time, after all.

He scratched under Crowley’s chin. Crowley sighed, his tight scales loosening a little. That was natural, this time. Those yellow eyes looked up at him, bright and trusting. 

Adam came over to Aziraphale’s side. “Don’t be scared,” he told Aziraphale, seriously, glancing at Crowley. “You din’t do anything wrong, neither of you.” He reached out and patted Watchdog, who whined. Dog, true to his name, had hidden somewhere under a chair in the room, as any dog would.

“Easier ssssaid than done,” Crowley whispered. “Raguel brings back memories.”

Aziraphale looked over to Raguel, curled up and cowering like a child on the floor. “He does,” he sighed. “But that’s why he’s banished, my dear.”

Adam sighed. He scratched Watchdog’s ear, but he looked at the detective. “You’re the girlfriend Aziraphale was tellin' me about,” he said, loudly. 

Lucifer’s eyes flashed red and he turned, stepped in front of his detective, clearly dying to hurt something. He mantled his wings, nearly blocking her from view.

“Stop that,” Adam said sharply. “I don’t hurt people! I never have and I never will! But if she’s your, your girlfriend then—then I don’t know what she is to me. I want to say hello, that’s all.” He played with the circlet.

“We haven’t met,” Detective Decker said, peering out from behind Lucifer.

“That was intentional,” Lucifer growled.

“That’s mean,” Adam said cheerfully.

“Lucifer, please tell me this isn’t your son or something—” sighed the good Detective, too perceptive for her own good, poor dear.

“Well, that’s exactly what he’s not telling you,” Crowley said from Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Chloe Decker, this is Adam Young, the Antichrist. He’s been eleven years old for about thirty years, and he chose his human family over Lucifer, and over the apocalypse. They mutually disowned each other.”

“The Apocalypse was Belial’s fault,” muttered Lucifer. “Also—Asteroth—” his eyes strayed to the empty space on the floor. “The Gates of Hell would have opened, beyond my control.” His voice had gone low and a little sing-song. “It was Written. I couldn’t stop it.”

Adam shrugged. “So we stopped it instead. Right, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Of course, my dear.”

“You have a _son,_” Chloe blurted. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“He doesn’t have a son,” Adam said. “He made an Antichrist, like he was s’pposed to. _It was Written. _He didn’t have a choice, but I did. Arthur Young is my father.” He crossed his arms.

Lucifer looked down at his feet. “I wasn’t proud of it, darling,” he told Chloe, still a little hoarse. There was shocked grief in every line of his face. “Playing into my wretched father’s hands like that. But it was that or true destruction. He’s right; there wasn’t a choice.”

“That’s—not a very nice way to talk about your son, Lucifer,” Chloe said, stepping back.

“He can’t help it,” Adam told her lightly. “He really can’t. It’s okay. He’s not my dad.” He smiled at her. “But I like you! You’re nice. Here. You can be his Left Hand, from now on.” He walked over and held out the circlet.

“No—” Lucifer blurted. “No, Chloe isn’t—Chloe’s earthbound, she doesn’t step foot in Hell, she—” he intercepted the circlet with unsteady hands. “Do you have any idea what this does? You can’t just wave it around! Humans can’t—”

“They can if I say they can,” Adam said softly.

“Don’t you touch her,” hissed Lucifer.

“Why don’t we all calm down,” Chloe said softly. “Lucifer.” She put a hand on his shoulder and then moved it, lightly, to the leading edge of his mantling white wing. Firmly, she guided it up, and then closed, cautious of his blades. He let her do it, and he folded the other one, too.

“Why don’t we get Raguel home, dear,” murmured Aziraphale to Crowley. “I think he’s had enough excitement.”

“I think _I’ve_ had enough excitement,” Crowley wailed.

“The monster,” whispered Raguel into his fist on the floor.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale asked.

“The monster Asteroth brought back,” Raguel said, louder. “He said it was in Lux, didn’t he?”

There was a beat of horrified silence.

“I didn’t see anything unusual,” Chloe said at last.

“No—you wouldn’t—” Aziraphale murmured. “Castiel says that most of their monsters look human, to disguise themselves. Come, Crowley. Raguel. We must look at the crowd in Lux.”

“I don’t—sense anything wrong,” Adam said slowly. “Only not-humans for miles and miles are in this room, ‘sides for one other angel and one other demon. No monsters here.”

“Yeah, but you’re tuned to this universe,” Crowley told Adam. “Not the next one, right? Aziraphale’s right, let’s check out Lux.”

Raguel wouldn’t leave the floor. Aziraphale had to physically walk over and get him up. Whimpering, he stuck close to Aziraphale’s side. Crowley, being Crowley, curled up on Aziraphale’s opposite shoulder, as far away from Raguel as he could. He was most definitely done for the evening, and Aziraphale thought, a little despairing, that he and Crowley were going to have to stay in LA for some time.

Lucifer still looked fairly off-balance, but he did offer his detective his arm. She took her folder, and they led the way to the lift, the King and Queen of Hell.

_____

[1] Well it was about bloody time, Lucifer thought crossly. Asteroth was a master of magic, and also his Left Hand. If anyone could help him make Hell passable for the human Door, so she could close the holes, it was Asteroth.

[2] “Oh, like I care,” Mazikeen told him, rolling her eyes. Her tone said she cared very much. “Sit on his right when I’m not there, whatever. I get it when I’m there, though, clear?”

Crowley gulped, and resolved to never, ever sit on Lucifer’s right side, a promise that he broke almost immediately. “Crystal.”

[3] Aziraphale’s Function was to Guard. It didn’t specify _what _he was guarding, though. He’d guarded the Gates of Eden, of course, but those were long gone now, and anyway he rather liked his books better.

[4] His Left Hand! Asteroth made the only passable booze in Hell that wasn’t made of the blood of something horrible! They had a long, long relationship built on snobbery and disdain, and Asteroth was brilliant at what passed for sex in Hell. And how on Earth was he going to close the holes in Hell without him?


	4. Chapter 4

The lift ride down was just as awkward. At least Crowley was curled up on his shoulder, though; that was rather nice.

The lift doors opened once more to Lux, which was just as terrible as it was earlier. Raguel slumped against his side, mostly useless, but Aziraphale took a deep breath. He strode from the lift and watched the strobing, awful lights, the writhing bodies. Maybe that inner-Cherub might be useful, for once? He closed his eyes and focused. Perhaps he could—harness Naomi’s curse somehow, make it his own? 

He reached for it, and the world went a little far away.

“Don’t do that,” blurted the demon on his shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking and it’s a terrible idea. It can’t tell right from wrong, angel, any more than you can. Don’t let her make you into that. Come on. Come back to me. Aziraphale.”

The demon’s name was Crowley, and Aziraphale loved him, loved him terribly, and finding a monster from another world was not worth losing that, not even if that monster took human lives. Aziraphale exhaled, unnecessary breath, and came back to himself.

“I really didn’t like it,” he murmured.

“I know,” said Crowley. He looked down at his dog. “Hey, Watchie? Can you find me something in the crowd that’s not human?”

Watchdog looked at Crowley. Her expression went deadpan. She jerked her head to Raguel, and then Lucifer, and then Aziraphale.

“Yes, obviously,” Crowley said, not without affection. “Idiot dog.” Aziraphale chuckled. He scratched her ear.

“Neither human not celestial, my dear,” he said. She thought about it, sniffed. She wasn’t really a tracker, though she gave it a valiant effort.

“What about you, Crowley?” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley’s little black tongue flickered. “Sex, sweat and alcohol,” he said. “All tastes very human to me.”

Aziraphale looked around. Lux, as a whole, was absolutely beloved. Lucifer had the same effect on a place as Adam did, really. There was desire here too, of course, because that was Lucifer’s Function. But love permeated every fixture, every awful flashing light. There were no monsters here.

Lucifer had drawn Chloe off, to the far side of the bar, talking lowly and ostensibly looking for this creature. But the hour grew later, and the crowds thinned, and no monster appeared. It was Raguel who came up with the idea to talk to the bouncers. He’d left, staggering and disoriented under the lights. Aziraphale was a little concerned for him, but something to focus on would do him some good. Raguel was, after all, the first detective. 

“We don’t even know what this thing looks like,” Crowley said into Aziraphale’s ear. “It could look human, for all we know.”

“It does look human,” Aziraphale told him softly. “That’s how they are, in Castiel’s world.”

Without any more specifics, or identifying characteristics, there was no finding it. Aziraphale gave up, after some hours. He sat at the bar with his serpent on his shoulder, sharing a ridiculous cocktail with a ridiculous name[1]. He spooned it in sips to Crowley, who got progressively cuddlier the more he drank. He was quite a little serpent, after all, Aziraphale thought fondly, and the drink was rather alcoholic.

The crowd had thinned and Crowley was thrumming drunkenly in his ear when Lucifer and Chloe made their way over. Behind them was Raguel, purpose in his stride. He looked--much better. Angels were meant to have tasks, Aziraphale thought, watching him. Detectiving seemed to have helped. 

“They didn’t see anyone,” Raguel said flatly. “The bouncers, I mean. Nothing unusual for this time of night, anyway.” His eyes were cold, cold like an angel’s. Aziraphale shivered and placed himself: Lux, his demon around his shoulders. A Principality. “We’ll have to wait.”

“People will die,” Lucifer growled. “If we don’t catch this thing—”

“Yes, they will,” Raguel said, still flat. “One, or two, or three. There’s no other way to track it. Luckily, you have your thumb on the pulse of the LAPD, don’t you?” He arched an eyebrow at Chloe. “Anything weird, flag it. I can take it from there.”

“Are you serious?” Lucifer blurted. “We just wait for people to die? We have to catch it now! It doesn’t belong here!”

“And here we have the cruxssss of the Fall,” whispered Crowley, rather drunk, into Aziraphale’s ear. “Long term plan that takesssss an unfair sssslant verssssses action and agencssssy, eternal war unending—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphlale scolded, more amused than he should be.

“I want to find the monssster!” wailed the little snake, and promptly fell off his shoulder and onto the bar. Aziraphale scooped him up.

“You’ve had too much to drink, my dear.”

“Jusssst a few sssips!”

“You are a very small snake.” Manually, Aziraphale wound the limp serpent around his wrist. He put his head in Aziraphale’s palm, muttering.

“I hate to say it,” Chloe said softly, “But Raguel’s right. We need evidence to catch this monster, and we don’t have any. What we do have,” she added, looking at Lucifer, “Is a very human, very high profile murder. We have to see it before dawn, and we are hours late. This is important.” She put her hand on Lucifer’s arm for emphasis. “I wouldn’t have delayed if this weren’t important; you know that. But we also have a job to do across the city. And we have no evidence, Lucifer, and no trail to follow.” She squeezed. “We can keep an eye out for LAPD reports.” She turned to Raguel, frowning. “You really were a detective, weren’t you?” 

Raguel smiled at her sadly. “The first,” he said.

“Can you continue to patrol at Lux, if Lucifer and I go investigate the LAPD’s murder?”

“Detective!”

“Lucifer, a girl is dead,” Chloe said. “And we have no leads on this.”

He sighed.

Raguel’s confidence faded a little. “If—If Aziraphale and Crowley stay,” he said, slowly. “I should be fine.”

“Do not,” snarled Lucifer, “smite a single soul in my club.”

“It’s against the rules to kill a human,” Raguel said, and his smile was crooked, madness at the corner of his lips. “I won’t hurt anyone.”

“He won’t,” Aziraphale said. He stroked Crowley’s little green head with his thumb, and Crowley thrummed and thrummed. He could feel the vibrations against his wrist and fought to keep his voice steady; he felt all aflutter and wanted to thrum back, but it was rather inappropriate given the situation, so he didn’t. “Generally speaking, he doesn’t.”

Raguel smiled, sharp and strange, madness leaking through. “Give me a task, please,” he said to Chloe, nearly begging. “It’s better if I have a task.”

“I already gave you a task,” Chloe told him, on no uncertain terms. “Look for evidence. Be a detective again. That’s your task.”

Raguel took an unnecessary breath. He settled. He nodded. “Thank you.”

“Have you—ever thought of therapy?” Chloe asked softly. “Lucifer has—I mean—”

“He is not allowed to smite Linda!” Lucifer said loudly.

“He doesn’t smite humans.” She rubbed Lucifer’s arm. “It’s against the rules, right? And Linda seems to—specialize. In celestials[2].”

“What happened to me,” Raguel said, raspy, “Is not something I would give as a burden to a human. It is too horrible, Chloe Decker. It is—eons of horrible.” 

Poor fellow, thought Aziraphale, as he always thought when he saw glimpses of Raguel’s great sadness. It was never his fault, really. The Fall, his banishment and isolation, the years he spent lost, and the Spanish invasion of Tenochtitlan, his own beloved city[3]. Raguel himself said that he had never quite recovered from that. 

“Think about it anyway,” Chloe told him gently. “It’s not a burden. And she might be able to help. Come on, Lucifer. This body dropped hours ago. Dan’s been there covering, and I told him we’d be very late, but the chief really wants us.” She tugged him.

Lucifer frowned, but let himself be pulled. “Where is Beatrice?”

“With Shepherd,” Chloe’s fading voice said. “She can be alone for a few hours, especially with the dog.”

“Ssssss’abit Peter Pan, innit?” Crowley muttered into Aziraphale’s palm. “Girl an’ her dog. Where’s Watchdog?”

And speaking of Peter Pan—“Where’s Adam?” Aziraphale realized with horror.

“I’m looking for evidence,” Raguel chirped, and vanished into the crowd.

“Usssssssssseless,” Crowley muttered. “Watchdog! Where’zza—Hey, ‘Ziraphale, we lost the Antichrist again.” He giggled.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and concentrated on not smiting everything within smiting distance[4]. This was far too much stress for someone on recovery from—from brain sickness[5], he thought.

“Love you,” Crowley crooned, still drunk, but the mirth draining away. He rarely said it aloud while sober, but drunk was an entirely different story. “Love you a lot. More’n, more’n the stars love the sky. More’n the sea loves the moon. Please come back, angel. S’okay. We’ll find him.”

Aziraphale exhaled. It was definitely, he thought, a necessary breath. He stroked Crowley’s little head with a thumb. Crowley thrummed and it vibrated all up his arm. When he opened his eyes, he saw those bright yellow ones, waiting for him to come home, patiently[6].

“I love you too,” he sighed, and they weren’t easy these days, those words, because Cherubim loved everything but in a vague, flat kind of way. Principalities loved their territories, and everyone on them. Aziraphale had, somewhere down the line, acquired individual, personal love, which he gifted to Crowley.

Crowley flicked his tongue against Aziraphale’s palm, pleased. “Watchie will come when you call her,” he said placidly. “And we'll all find Adam together. Don’t worry.”

“Watchdog,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Louder,” said Crowley.

“Watchdog!” Aziraphale called into the crowd.

And there she was, nose in his crotch[7], wagging her tail delightedly. Aziraphale exhaled and shoved her head away, because that was rude, before scratching her ear.

"Have you seen Adam and Dog, my dear?” he asked. Tracking was not her forte - unless to find Crowley, Aziraphale and, likely, Lucifer; people currently or previously her masters - but maybe she had already seen them, and knew where they were. 

Carefully, she took Aziraphale’s hand—the one not holding Crowley—in her mouth, and pulled him gently from the bar. Where had her llama gone?

Adam, always and forever eleven years old, was hiding under a table in the far corner. Reality kind of rippled around the table, making it hard to see, because he didn’t want to be seen. There were no people sitting at it, anyway. Aziraphale crouched, once Watchie let go of his hand.

“Hello, Adam, are you alright?” he asked.

Adam was hugging Dog close to his chest, and Dog had Watchie’s llama in his mouth. At his side, Watchie did not seem pleased about this.

“It’s too loud,” Adam said miserably, though Aziraphale could hear him, because he wanted to be heard.

“You were alright before, my dear.” Aziraphale sat, carefully, on Lucifer’s wood floor.

Adam swallowed. “Watchdog made it stop before. I don’t like it, Aziraphale.”

“Why don’t we go outside, Adam,” Aziraphale said softly. “Hmm? Raguel is looking for clues in the bar.”

“I have your dad’sssss phone number,” Crowley hissed. “Your real dad, Misssster Young. If we find anything, we’ll tell you. Go home, Adam. We’ve got it covered.”

Adam laughed wetly. “You’ve never had it covered, Crowley.”

Covered with what, Aziraphale almost said, but Crowley chewed on his thumb[8] so he kept quiet.

“You can go home, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured.

“How’re you gonna get back?” Adam asked him sadly. “I don’t want you to—to get scared flying.”

“We’ll call you,” Aziraphale told him, touched. “It’s alright. Go home.”

Adam sniffled. “Stay together,” he told them, heartfelt. “You’re my favorites. Don’t get hurt.”

“We won’t,” Aziraphale promised.

And then Adam and Dog—simply were not there anymore. The llama hit the floor with a squeak and Watchie lunged for it. 

The music of Lux got that much louder; Adam must have been unconsciously dimming it a little. Poor thing.

Aziraphale looked at his snake, and then he looked at his dog, happily chewing on her toy. There was nothing else for it, but to go back to the bar, and get smashed. Lucifer would be back by morning.

__________________________

[1] Sex on the beach, honestly. How unsanitary! Sand in all kinds of crevices. But the cocktail was quite good, at least.

[2] She left out the “Apparently” that went at the end of that sentence. She knew Linda was dying to write a paper on Lucifer and even Amenadiel, to some extent; might be nice to increase her sample size. Frankly, Chloe was dying to read that paper, should Linda ever actually write it.

[3] Raguel was a lost soul. Where Aziraphale and Crowley had fallen in love with cities in early history, Raguel had wandered, unable to settle. Tenochtitlan had been so beautiful. It sat in the middle of a lake, and the sunrise over the water and the gold on the pyramids glowed enough to almost, almost be reminiscent of the Silver City. The Azetcs there were filled with joy. He’d had two humans to call his own, for the very first time. They even knew what he was, and they found it—marvelous. They could call him back from madness as easy as breathing, and he had loved them terribly. He’d stayed with their line for three generations, til the Spanish had invaded. He’d never wanted to unmake a human as badly as he’d wanted to destroy the Conquistadors. He still couldn’t bear to visit Mexico City. Even the Spanish language held the power to break his heart. 

[4] About ten kilometers.

[5] A term he just made up because he didn’t want to think about Naomi, and her drills.

[6] If a little drunkenly.

[7] Why? Aziraphale could never fathom why. He and Crowley rarely bothered to make The Effort, but Watchie still shoved her nose there all the time. It was a mystery.

[8] Without fangs or venom, what was Crowley, an animal?


	5. Chapter 5

Lucifer was not, in fact, back by morning.

Amenadiel showed up, though, frowning in disapproval. “Aziraphale?” he asked.

The club and emptied out, and the bouncers had escorted the last of the partygoers from the premises long ago. Whether or not Lucifer had trained them to ignore celestials somehow was a mystery, but they had left the dim lights on, at least, if not the strobes and the music. Aziraphale was slumped over the bar, playing booping games with an equally smashed Crowley. When he looked up at the sound of is name, Crowley struck. He missed Aziraphale’s nose entirely and got his cheekbone. Since he wasn’t and would never use his hooked, venomous fangs on Aziraphale, even drunk, he slipped right off and collapsed onto the bar in a noodly heap. 

That was when Aziraphale followed Amenadiel’s voice with his eyes. He was dressed casually but neatly in denims and a button-up, striding slowly, clearly shocked, down the stairs of Lux. So strange, still, to see him, the splendid Eldest, to whom Aziraphale had once reported, wearing human clothes, and wearing them well. Kerubiel, Aziraphale’s commanding officer, would have sneered, but Kerubiel was long dead. It was why he’d started reporting directly to Amenadiel in the first place, during the Rebellion.

Aziraphale tried to sit up straight and nearly fell off the barstool. “Anen-Ameni—Amenadiel goodness your _Name_ is hard to say.” He beamed.

“S’Enochian,” Crowley said, upside-down on the bartop. “Name in English. No capital. English, angel.”

“You’re drunk,” Amenadiel said, marveling. He stepped off the stairs. “How can you possibly be drunk?”

“Jus’ takes some in’agination,” Aziraphale slurred.

“Angels can’t get drunk,” Amenadiel said, still baffled.

“Angels with no ina-ina-imagination can’t get drunk!” Crowley cried. His pale, soft throat was still exposed to the ceiling. He was such a lovely snake, really. Aziraphale stroked that throat, very carefully. Crowley thrummed at him[1].

Amenadiel walked up to them, slowly. He wasn’t wearing usual Heaven fare, of course, what with his casual human clothes, but the rest of him smacked of Heaven all over, like someone had thrown Heaven glitter at him. Crowley flipped over when he got near, hiding his vulnerable throat, and that was a pity. They were both still the smallest bit wary around Amenadiel, but he had rescued Aziraphale from Naomi once, and that had helped with the fear. He was Angel Network, for all that he was a little elusive. He wouldn't hurt Crowley, anyway, and he certainly wouldn't hurt Aziraphale. 

Amenadiel sat on the barstool next to Aziraphale. “It’s nine in the morning,” he said.

“Oh dear,” murmured Aziraphale. That was most unbecoming. “I suppose it’s time to sober up then.”

The second bartender, the one who wasn’t Crowley, had long since left, Aziraphale thought fuzzily. He and Crowley had a long, long history of drinking late into the next day. The place had closed down at 2:30, leaving only himself, Crowley and Raguel, who was still snooping around hopelessly in the back somewhere, poor fellow.

Aziraphale offered Crowley a finger, and Crowley struck, playfully, without his fangs. Amenadiel’s eyes went a little wide at that, then wondering, when there was no blood. But of course there was no blood, Aziraphale thought crossly. Crowley would never hurt him. It was only a game.

“Sober up?” Amenadiel asked.

“Poor creature,” Crowley said. “How long have y’been on Earth?”

Amenadiel sat up straighter. “Four years,” he said, “Give or take a few visits. I’ve been in Heaven, lately, restoring order and trying to learn how to fix the holes. I have nearly six hundred visits[2] left; I never used them much, before. I heard you were here, so I thought I would say hello. We’ve made a great deal of progress restoring order, but the holes are still a mystery.” He smiled, self-deprecating.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. He actively did not want to think about the holes, so he did not.

“Well,” said Crowley, “Watch and learn.”

Really, Aziraphale thought, still drunk as he watched Crowley not only remove the alcohol from his blood but also transform back into a man, that was quite unfair. How was Amenadiel supposed to learn anything with that much going on?

“S’too much,” he scolded Crowley, who grinned at him. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, so his eyes shined brightly in the dim, empty club. He was sitting on the bartop, where he'd been sprawled as a snake. 

“Your turn,” he said.

Aziraphale winced. It was an easy, if unpleasant trick. He miracled up a quick pair of sunglasses and offered them to Crowley, too. The demon put them on cheerfully and crossed his legs on the bar.

“Ta-da,” Crowley told Amenadiel.

“Very impressive,” Amenadiel said, amused. “I have no idea how you did that.”

“Oh, inebriation is just a state of mind,” Aziraphale said, waving a hand lightly. “Or rather, the ability to experience inebriation. You just slow your metabolism a little, that’s all.”

“That’s very a very—shallow margin of error,” Amenadiel said, confused.

“Fine adjustment,” Crowley said.

“What did you do?” Amenadiel asked.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.

What _did_ he do? He did drills over a crystal-colored plain far below, part of legions and legions of Cherubs. No. He was demoted, hurt and humiliated; they’d removed his second set of wings when they made him into a Principality but he never quite fit right, after that. But then there was Earth, and constant, concerned yellow eyes, and a hot, muggy city that took his breath away. The first place that felt like home: Abida, and his house, and his bread. “I fell in love,” Aziraphale said after a moment. “My baker in Mari. The first time I drank for real was with that family.”

Crowley was nodding. “Thonis,” he agreed quietly.

Crowley had been a wreck when that city had finally sunk. He’d gone on a bender for years. They hadn’t even properly been friends then, but Aziraphale had still been concerned. Of course, Aziraphale hadn’t been much better when the Akkadians came and razed his darling Mari to the ground. They’d rebuilt, but it hadn’t been the same.

“Maybe I should just wait, then,” Amenadiel said with a smile. “LA is starting to feel like home. How are you feeling, Aziraphale? Did you fly here?”

Aziraphale smiled at him, warmed by his concern. “I didn’t fly,” he said. “It’s—not a good idea, flying.”

Crowley made an unhappy sound from the bartop. Aziraphale patted his foot.

“But otherwise I’m doing well. A blip here and there, but mostly I can pull myself from it, and if I can’t, Crowley can call me back, can’t you, dear? Or Watchdog.”

Watchdog had fallen asleep at the foot of Aziraphale’s stool. At the sound of her name, she snored.

“I’m glad to hear it, Aziraphale. Truly,” said Amenadiel, and he really did sound like he meant it. Rather nice, Aziraphale thought, sitting up a bit straighter. Gabriel was always so – well. Terrible, really. And Michael liked him, but he was rather – distracted, most of the time. Amenadiel met his eyes directly with a kindness Aziraphale was frankly unaccustomed to from celestials, aside from Crowley.

“I’m actually here to see if you wanted breakfast,” Amenadiel said, a little awkwardly. “Lucifer mentioned you were here, and I—well, I know you both rather like earth customs, and I’d like to get to know you better.” He smiled hopefully.

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a surprised look.

“I’d like to take Watchdog with us, if it’s all the same to you,” Aziraphale told Amenadiel softly.

“She’s a service dog,” Crowley said. “And we can’t leave old Rags behind.”

She wasn’t really a service dog, Aziraphale thought a little sourly. She wasn’t trained. But she could call him out of a drift, so there was that. He did rather like to have her around.

“Of course! We’ll find somewhere outside. Raguel is here?” Amenadiel asked eagerly. “I haven’t seen him since—well.” He spared Crowley an embarrassed look, like he didn’t want to say _the Fall_. As well he shouldn’t, really. 

“Oh yeah. Chloe gave him a task. Don’t get your hopes up, he’s half-way crazy, nowadays. Hey, Rags!” Crowley called, across the bar. “Ragueeeeeeeeeeeeel!”

Raguel popped up from under Lucifer’s piano. He wasn’t holding a magnifying glass, but it looked like he wanted one. “Crowley,” he said crossly, “I’m examining footprints.”

“Well, come examine over here. We’re going to go to breakfast, want to come? You can examine some pancakes. I know you like pancakes.”

“The Detective gave me a task,” Raguel said.

“She won’t begrudge you a break, brother,” Amenadiel said warmly. “It’s alright. Come eat with us.” He said it sort of proudly, like it had taken him a while to figure out the significance of eating with humans, like he was asking their brother to partake in an exotic ritual with him. Not quite native yet, Aziraphale thought, but getting there. 

Raguel’s eyes went huge. “Amenadiel?” he breathed.

“Yes, yes it’s me. Let me get a look at you, Raguel.” He took an eager step forward.

Raguel’s eyes filled and he abruptly, noisily, burst into tears.

“Oh, _no_,” murmured Amenadiel, rushing over.

Crowley leaned close. “You want to fill me in here?”

Aziraphale thought back. He’d still been a Cherub, then, in the days of the Fall. He remembered the heat of his sword, the cries of the rebels. It was a strange feeling, because juxtaposed with the vivid, vicious memories of cutting down and injuring the soon-to-be-Fallen, he had horrid thought: had he run into an unfallen Crowley, back then? Could he have hurt him? He shuddered, afraid to ask. He’d fought quite a lot of rebels. And after— “Amenadiel tried to stop Zachariah,” he said, slowly. “Tried to reason with him. But he was carried off and held back. They didn’t dare pinion the Eldest, of course, but they made him watch.”

They didn’t just pinion Raguel. They mutilated him. They tortured him, there in the smoking ruins of the Silver City, just after the Fall. He’d taken all the blame for it, poor fellow, when Lucifer and the Six Hundred Sixty Six, even darling Crowley, had each made their own choices. They’d torn out muscle and feather and sinew before they’d sliced off bone. Even then, they’d done it unevenly; Raguel still had the smallest stump on his right side, but not the left. He had two sad tertiary feathers, when he manifested, and not enough powder-down to care for them properly. As far as Aziraphale knew, he plucked the feathers and wept when they grew back, the traumatic experience and his own repressed guilt etched hard into his psyche. Angels could self-actualize, but Raguel believed himself hopeless; his wings would not return. Aziraphale remembered Raguel’s blood staining the street below him, and his screams. They were the worst screams Aziraphale had ever heard, before or since. He’d hid behind his wings, unable to look. His fellow Cherubim had jeered at him for it.

“Hey.” Crowley tapped his forehead with a finger. “With me?”

“It was a terrible day,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Yeah,” Crowley said with a rueful smile. “Understatement.”

That was fair.

Amenadiel had taken Raguel in his arms and was hushing him. Raguel seemed to have calmed down some and had put his cheek on Amenadiel’s broad shoulder like a child. “Breakfast,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I like the sound of that,” Amenadiel said warmly. “Aziraphale, get your demon and your dog. Let’s get something to eat.” 

Crowley snorted. He hopped off the bar and knelt to wake Watchie. “C’mon, pup,” he murmured. “We’re getting food. If you’re good, I’ll share.”

She yawned hugely and looked up at him. “Come on,” Crowley said.

Reluctantly, she got to her feet. She stretched and scooped up her llama. 

“That’s a good girl,” Aziraphale told her. “Come along now.”

Dog and demon in tow, he followed Amenadiel out of Lux and into the California sunshine.

It was—extremely bright, of course. Terrible place, really, LA, Aziraphale thought. He glanced at Crowley, who sucked in a pleased breath. Sunshine, serpents. _“Sunshinesweetlove,” _Aziraphale murmured to him, teasing. It was Enochian, but he’d made that word, his own creativity such as it was, and it belonged solely to Crowley.

And it was, of course, a joke.

Crowley made a face at him. “S’not my fault you got used to the damp and dreary,” he said haughtily.

Together, they followed Amenadiel and Raguel out into Lux’s car park.

There was a car idling there. Amenadiel straightened a little as he approached it, a happy bounce in his step. The human driving must belong to him, Aziraphale thought, before she rolled down her window.

It was the lovely Dr. Martin. He’d played cards with her at Lucifer’s flat, once, and beaten her soundly. Lucifer’s therapist, decidedly Lucifer’s human. She knew Amenadiel? Surely Lucifer would keep her far, far away from their eldest brother?

“I don’t know if they’ll all fit,” she said. “Is that a dog?”

Watchdog barked and frolicked up to Aziraphale’s side, wagging her tail. She loved humans, of course, especially humans who smelled like angels. 

“We’ll fit,” Crowley said cheerfully. “Don’t worry. And yeah, her name’s Watchdog. She likes humans; she’ll be your best friend before the day is done, promise. She only looks scary.”

Dr. Martin looked skeptical, but she made an _if you say so _gesture and rolled up her window. Amenadiel practically scampered to the front seat.

Ah, Aziraphale thought. She was his favorite human. He wasn’t quite in love, as Amenadiel was a slower moving creature than Lucifer, but he was getting there. Aziraphale felt himself smile. He remembered feeling like that.

“Come on,” Crowley murmured, mostly to Watchie. “You first, Rags,” he said.

It was a minor miracle. An easy one. Trick of space. First Raguel piled in, then Aziraphale, then Crowley and Watchdog. They all fit very comfortably, Watchdog at Crowley’s feet, though she put her head on Aziraphale’s knee. He scratched her ear fondly.

Dr. Martin looked in the rearview. “So I know Aziraphale,” she said lightly as she backed out of her parking space, “And I remember Crowley and Raguel. When did you get a dog?”

“Around the same time that the detective got a dog,” Crowley said cheerfully. “They’re from the same litter. Ah—did Lucifer tell you about Shepherd?”

Linda hit the brakes. “Are you telling me there’s a Hellhound in my car?”

“Er—yes,” Aziraphale said. “Did—that is—did Lucifer explain about the Naming?”

“Yes. They become what you call them,” Linda said, suspiciously.

“And ours is named Watchdog,” Crowley said, soothingly. “Her job is to protect Aziraphale and me, and also Earth, if she can. She loves humans. Really, Dr. Martin, she’ll be your best friend if you let her.”

“So if I don’t attack you, I’m fine?” asked Linda.

“Why would you attack us, my dear?” Aziraphale said.

“Well what qualifies as an attack? A punch on the shoulder? A wrong turn?”

“Ill intent,” Crowley said, still gentle. “Wishing us true harm. You can prick me with a needle by accident and she won’t lift her head, so long as you didn’t mean it. If Lucifer loves you, then there is no way you could even begin to muster the kind of cruelty necessary to alert Watchdog. It’s a different story for angels and demons and various, but you’re human. You’re fine. Promise.”

Linda eased her foot off the break, and the car inched backwards a bit. “Isn’t it your job to lie?”

“That’s a stereotype, come on,” Crowley said, scratching Watchdog’s ruff. “You run around with Lucifer. You know better than that.”

“Did you lie to Eve?” asked Amenadiel, curious.

“No,” said Crowley. “Adam was a prick. Adam one, I mean, not Adam the Antichrist.”

Linda hit the brakes again. The car shuddered to a halt. “There’s an Antichrist?”

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “Lucifer didn’t tell you?”

“That it’s the end times? No!”

“It isn’t the end times, Linda,” Amenadiel chuckled. “The end times were about thirty years ago. The Antichrist apparently refused.” He looked at Aziraphale in the rearview, amused. “Thanks to you, Aziraphale, so Metatron[3] tells me.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Yes, well,” he said, and couldn’t think of anything else to add. He was quite proud of averting the apocalypse, of course, but the angel Amenadiel might not be so approving, despite his warm eyes. Aziraphale had learned that the hard way; angels lied, too.

“So the world’s not ending,” Linda said.

“Not even close,” Raguel said, amused.

“I would love to hear the story, Aziraphale,” Amenadiel said warmly.

“Home Office wasn’t pleased,” Aziraphale said. He looked down and Watchie’s head and stroked her ears. 

“Home Office?” Amenadiel chuckled, “Home Office is filled with busybodies and bureaucrats. Aziraphale, they report to_ me_. I am very pleased that the world didn’t end.”

Aziraphale blinked down at Watchie’s head. “Really?”

“Yes, Aziraphale, of course.”

“Even Gabriel?”

“Of course.” Amenadiel turned around in the seat to look at Aziraphale; Aziraphale could hear the material squeak. He was still looking down at his dog. He stroked a finger down her long, pointed nose.

“Aziraphale?” Amenadiel asked. “Has Gabriel been cruel to you?” 

Aziraphale didn’t answer.

“He’s been bullying you, hasn’t he?” Amenadiel deduced[4].

Aziraphale gulped around the sudden, extremely human lump in his throat.

“He really has,” growled Crowley.

Amenadiel huffed a little. “Next time I’m up there, I’ll have a talk with him. And I’ll see what I can do for your status, too.”

Aziraphale felt a thrill of fear. Fear was not good for his constitution; it made him itch for a sword, the way he would have as a warrior. He was not a warrior. He did not want to _be_ a warrior. He was a bookseller. He suppressed that urge and finally looked up. “My status?”

Watchdog licked his fingers. It was sticky, but it helped.

“Yes. Lucifer set Crowley free. I’d like to do the same for you, if you want it.”

“Oh,” whispered Aziraphale, shocked. “But I—I don’t want to Fall, I—”

“No, no Falling isn’t for us to decide,” Amenadiel said gently. “That’s for you[5]. But I can tell them you’re dead. Or gone. Or simply to be left to your own devices. It’s up to you.”

“That’s very kind,” Aziraphale said, shocked to his core. “Thank you, Amenadiel, I don’t know what to say—I hardly know you—”

“Well, we’ll fix that,” Amenadiel said cheerfully. “You stopped the apocalypse. And alerted us to Naomi. You know Earth better than anyone, Aziraphale, and it’s clear you hate visiting the Silver City. Call it an olive branch.”

“Hellovan olive branch,” muttered Crowley. He rubbed Aziraphale’s arm, supportive as always, but he didn’t need to say anything. There was nothing to say.

There was a short silence.

“Gabriel’s a bully?” Linda asked at last.

“Oh, the _worst,_” Crowley blurted. “Do you know what he did to Aziraphale in the sixteenth century? I mean _really_—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale scolded. The memory unfurled like a flower: unpleasant, of course, but important, and Crowley had been there afterward with dinner to cheer him and buy him a new coat.

“Oh, and the thing with summoning you back because you had mixed up some paperwork? _You? _Mix up_ paperwork?_” Crowley sputtered, furious, “Bullshit! It was all a ploy to make you miserable! And that time you almost got guillotined because you used _too many miracles?_”

“You almost got _guillotined_?” gasped Linda.

“Er, yes,” Aziraphale said. Another unpleasant memory, but it was well anchored like the rest, so that was something.

“And the thing with Mary?” scowled Crowley. “He made you drink that awful wine? Because it was _funny_?”

“Alright, dear, that’s enough,” Aziraphale told Crowley, rubbing his knee. Crowley looked furious.

“It’s not on, I’m just saying,” he muttered. “You expect that sort of stuff from Hastur and his lot but that’s _Hell_.”

Watchdog whined. Aziraphale patted her, and she quieted. “It’s alright, dear,” he said, a little dully. “It’s just how Home Office is.”

“Amenadiel,” Linda said firmly, “That’s not acceptable.”

“No, it isn’t,” Amenadiel said. “I didn’t know it was that bad[6]. I’ll look into it.”

“Well you mustn’t _pinion_ him for a little joke!” Aziraphale spluttered.

Raguel made a little hiccoughing noise. Wings, Aziraphale thought, horrified at himself. Raguel did not like talk of wings, or losing wings.

“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale told him wretchedly. “Let’s speak of something else, shall we? Er. Amenadiel, how are you finding Earth?”

“Not a little joke,” Crowley muttered rebelliously[7]. Aziraphale patted his knee, and he quieted.

Aziraphale looked up. Amenadiel was twisted around in his seat again, watching him with his kind old eyes. How different, was the Eldest, from what he remembered. Of course, those memories were Cherub-memories, and they were dangerous anyway. Amenadiel permitted the subject change.

“Fascinating,” he said at last

“Yeah, is that a good fascinating or a bad fascinating?” Crowley drawled. Raguel gave a wheezy chuckle.

“What have you been doing?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, just—seeing the sights,” Amenadiel said. “Talking to people. People are excellent, Aziraphale, Take Linda here—”

“Oh, please don’t,” Linda said, but it was with some humor.

“Oh, but Linda, you’re wonderful! You forgave me my transgressions and went even further to become one of my best friends, and then more.” He smiled.

Crowley elbowed Aziraphale. “First love, I _knew it_,” he said in an undertone.

Aziraphale tutted at him. “It was rather obvious, my dear.”

“I—didn’t say that,” Amenadiel said, looking a little embarrassed.

“You didn’t need to,” Aziraphale. “It’s not so much the person, though the person matters; it’s the place, too. Mine was Abida, in Mari. Crowley loved Bakt, a young lady from a city called Thonis. Raguel, you had one too, didn’t you? The city was Tenochtitlan.”

Raguel swallowed, heartbreak in his eyes. “I had a whole family, Aziraphale,” he said softly. “Three generations. I would have stayed in that city forever.”

“What happened to it?” Linda asked.

“Mexico City happened,” Raguel said bitterly. “The Spanish invaded.”

“Akkadians,” Aziraphale sighed, sympathetic.

“It sank,” said Crowley, dark.

“Time,” Aziraphale added to Linda. “Only time. The hazards of immortality. But there’s nothing like it, Amenadiel, that first city, the city you call home.” He smiled, enthused. “There will always be others, and each is wonderful and unique. But the first is the most special.”

“I dunno,” Crowley said lightly. “I like London, even though it’s always damp.”

“Oh yes, but you’d pick Thonis any day of the week, my dear.”

“You would have liked Bakt,” Crowley murmured. “She was brilliant. Sarcastic like you would not believe[8].”

“If you’d bothered to sit down and meet Abida you would have liked him too,” Aziraphale said haughtily. Abida—Aziraphale called up the memory. He’d been a thin man, clean shaven, with a warm laugh. He had a wife and grown children when Aziraphale had met him, and they’d all welcomed him into their family with absolute, splendid ease. Aziraphale had slept for the first time in that house. He had not felt that safe before, not even in Heaven, with the warm smell of bread permeating everything. 

“Too much fun blowing up his ovens,” Crowley was saying, grinning like the devious demon he was. Of course, Aziraphale felt just as safe and beloved with him, even when he was deeply irritating. “You were so angry! I really thought you’d smite me.” He leaned into Aziraphale, amused. Aziraphale leaned back, even though in those days—he’d really thought about it.

“So…. you think LA is my—first city,” Amenadiel said slowly. “And this has some—significance among earthbound angels.”

“Just a pattern,” Aziraphale shrugged. “Some angels have them, and some don’t. Castiel, for example, doesn’t seem to have a city, at least not yet.”

“Yeah he does,” Crowley said, weirdly triumphant.

This was news. “Does he?”

“Oh yeah.” Crowley grinned conspiratorially. “I figured it out, his last letter. Get this, angel, his city? It isn’t a city. It’s the _open road_. His humans travel so much that he associates home with driving in middle America. He is a _deeply _weird angel.” This was said with some affection, though Crowley probably wasn’t even aware of it. Aziraphale knew that Crowley worried about Castiel, all alone in Nightmare World.

“Well, I wasn’t going to argue with you there.” Poor Castiel. He was a good friend, for all that he was very confused most of the time. Those two humans of his didn’t take nearly good enough care of him. Incorporeal wings indeed.

“But I’m not a Principality, I’m a Seraph,” Amenadiel was saying thoughtfully. “I don’t form that sort of attachment to places.”

“We all do,” Raguel said. “Sooner or later. It took me a long time.”

“It’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s quite lovely, actually. I quite like having a city. London is marvelous.” Aziraphale smiled.

“It will fall eventually,” Raguel said darkly.

“That’s part of it,” Crowley told him. “The loss is worth it.”

“No, it’s not,” growled Raguel.

“Well, not if it’s invaded by Conquistadors, maybe, but I wouldn’t trade Thonis.”

“That’s—” Linda’s voice was soft and wondering. She turned the car down another street. “That’s fascinating. You’ve outlived _cities._ And you mourn them as if they were people.”

“Old friends,” Aziraphale sighed. “Long gone, of course.”

“And you still loved the people in them,” Linda said.

“Very much,” Aziraphale said earnestly.

“And you remember them, after all these years, even their names.”

“Of course,” said Crowley.

“Really, really immortal,” Linda whispered. “Lucifer’s going to remember my name. For—eternity.”

“Yep,” said Crowley. “It’s a kind of immortality, that, right?” He said it like this was something he’d thought about, something he’d hoped for. Like remembering their names would keep them with him. Poor sweet love, even after all these years.

“So will I, Linda,” said Amenadiel, earnest and lovestruck, over the moon, and he didn’t even know it. Aziraphale remembered what that was like.

“Wow,” whispered Linda. “That’s—a lot to process.”

“Not so much,” Crowley said lightly. “Just a different species, that’s all.”

Linda gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah,” she said. “Sure. That’s _all._”

______

[1] Trust, trust, trust, Crowley thought drunkenly. He thrummed his happiest thrum. He’d trust his angel to the moon and beyond. No demon in their right mind would bare their throat for pets like that, especially to an Adversary, let alone actually _receive_ pets. He loved pets. He’d bet even Lucifer wouldn’t, for Chloe. He was a deviant demon and he loooooooooooooooooved every second of it. _Do it again, Aziraphale._

[2] Angels got a finite number of Earth Visits. Most angels did not use their Earth Visits, with the exception of Michael, who had consumed them like a child consumes free candy. Aziraphale also had a finite number, technically speaking, but then, he’d only really used about ten or so. Each time he was recalled to Heaven, for one reason or another, he had to use a Visit to get back to Earth. Once he was down on Earth, however, there was no time limit, so that was alright.

[3] Metatron was more sentient fire than actual angel, but it did join the “our names don’t end in -el and we have feelings about it” club meetings from time to time. It often got into heated debates with Sandalphon about ineffability.

[4] It wasn’t a far leap. Gabriel was, in earth terms, the very definition of The Cool Kid. He had a big personality, a fairly obnoxious personality, and somewhere down the line he’d swallowed the company policy hook, line and sinker. Dogmatic was a word Amenadiel would use for Gabriel. Condescending was another one. He never used to be like that. He’d been funny and quirky as an eyas and he’d liked to play pranks. Then the Rebellion had happened, and Amenadiel had caught him trying to run away from Heaven. He'd brought Gabriel back into the fold, but Gabriel had—changed, after that.  
  
Somewhere, in the universe they called Nightmare World, Amenadiel died in combat, leaving Michael in command, and Gabriel never got caught. He left Heaven, made a deal with the Norse God Loki, and never looked back. He never became the thing that he loathed, the way the other one did.

[5] Crowley had a brief, furious thought: _no it isn’t, you bastard! _But this was neither the time nor the place, and frankly, if Aziraphale could be free without ever experiencing the horror of Falling, without his wings ever burning the way Crowley’s had, that would be brilliant. 

[6] And he really didn’t. Gabriel was – well – a bit of a know-it-all, and rather condescending, but he was an archangel. He was supposed to be Good. But then, things look very different when you’re the exalted Eldest, and everyone always shows you the best of everything. Having spent time on Earth, Amenadiel had learned this. His heart sank. Aziraphale was strange, it was true, but he was kind, and he didn’t deserve that. Who else was Gabriel bullying?

[7] Aziraphale was always _so _upset after seeing Gabriel, Crowley thought furiously. His hands shook and he broke things. Crowley would bite that bastard, too, if he got the chance. How dare he, how _dare _he treat Aziraphale that way, his Aziraphale, who sighed so sweetly when Crowley gave him cocoa, who thrummed when Crowley curled up in his lap? 

[8] She had never been afraid of Crowley, wings and eyes and all. She used to tug at his primaries, not to preen because in those old days the Fall was fresh enough that he couldn’t stand anyone behind him, not even her, but to get his attention. He’d sit as a snake around her neck; she’d sing to him as she shoplifted. Aziraphale would have been scandalized by those filthy, filthy songs. She’d kicked a guy in the balls for not paying her, once. By Manchester, she had been marvelous.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, Aziraphale likes food a whole lot, but he hasn't been to America much. I did a bunch of googling and apparently Eggs Benedict is super American, and American bacon is different from British bacon. Who knew? I sort of rolled with it. Please correct me if I'm mistaken; changing breakfast food details is not difficult haha.

The conversation meandered after that, mostly Aziraphale and Crowley talking about their adventures with a Hellhound in St. James Park. The traffic in LA was horrific, of course, just as the traffic in London was horrific, or it was, until Crowley decided he wanted to eat. Then it became suspiciously, miraculously, clear.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale told him.

“Wasn’t me,” Crowley said, a blatant lie. Even Watchdog wasn’t fooled.

“You did that?” Linda said, wondering.

“It’s cheating,” Amenadiel said, a little petulantly. “Our orders are not to meddle[1].”

“Aw, Adam doesn’t mind as long as we let people make their own choices,” Crowley shrugged.

“I don’t answer to Adam,” Amenadiel said haughtily. “That’s the Antichrist,” he added to Linda.

“Adam the Antichrist. I regret coming to this meal,” Linda said. She miraculously found a parking spot.

“Angel,” Crowley taunted. Aziraphale was sitting close enough that he could see his eyes gleam behind the sunglasses.

“Shush, I’m hungry,” Aziraphale said and tried to keep a straight face. It was difficult under the force of Crowley's amusement. 

“You are not,” Crowley teased. LInda slid them easily into the spot, and once she turned it off, they all piled out of the car.

Linda clearly knew the area. She led them to small, trendy sort of restaurant with a patio, where Watchdog could and eventually did sprawl under their table. She sniffed at Linda when they all sat and showed her the llama toy.

“Um,” said Linda, staring at the rubber toy.

“She loves that thing,” Crowley sighed.

“Your Hellhound has a rubber llama,” Linda said slowly.

“My Hellhound adores her rubber llama,” Crowley said, despairing.

“I think it’s sweet,” Aziraphale said.

Linda blinked, and blinked again. Then she laughed, bright and easy and delighted, as only a human could. “Have you named it yet?” she asked. Carefully, she reached out, and Watchie let her pat her head and scratch her ears. “The llama. It needs a name.”

“No, please,” groaned Crowley.

“That hadn’t occurred to me,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh, it definitely needs a name. Call it Dolly,” Linda said, a spark in her eyes behind her spectacles.

“Linda,” Amenadiel chuckled, shocked.

“Dolly Llama,” Crowley murmured. It took him a second, and then he chortled, real amused laughter, and Aziraphale felt his heart lighten, even though objectively speaking that was terrible. His demon was incorrigible, but Aziraphale had thought better of Linda, he really had. He rather liked the Dalai Lama; they'd had tea, once. Lovely man. 

He sighed, feigning long suffering, and looked at his menu. American breakfast was quite different from British breakfast, and this was somewhat delightful. He asked Linda’s advice, in the end, and ordered something called Eggs Benedict. Did it have to do with speaking well? The Latin suggested it did. Or, having eaten it, did one speak well ever after?

“Why are you like this?” Crowley groaned when Aziraphale brought it up. Linda laughed and laughed, but she did it kindly, so it didn’t sting.

“You’ll like it,” she said at last, “Promise.”

He had his reservations about the hollandaise sauce, as well as the American style bacon, which just looked—wrong, but it turned out to be delicious in the end. The hollandaise sauce was in fact just right for the dish, and the American bacon was not as bad as it seemed at first glance. He quite enjoyed it, in fact; it was nicely crunchy and quite flavorful.

Crowley fed bits of his omelet to Watchie, as though Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. He was just stealing a bite of something called grits off Crowley’s plate, listening to Raguel tell one of his stories—a quiet, fascinating tale about a crown owned by the ruler of a Mayan city-state, long ago, which had manipulative powers—when his demon went ridged in his chair.

Watchdog’s head came up, and she whined, concerned.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, startled. He’d interrupted Raguel mid-sentence.

Crowley didn’t respond. Aziraphale touched his wrist, which was cold as ice.

Panic swooped through his belly. Gently, he moved his hand to Crowley’s arm and shook. “Crowley?”

“Crowley, are you alright?” Linda asked.

“He’s not answering me,” Aziraphale said. “And he’s terribly cold. He’s—he’s a reptile, he can’t _be_ cold—” The table faded a little, and deep down inside, that old warrior clutched his sword, white-knuckled. Protect the demon. Protect the demon from _what_?

“Can I take his sunglasses off?” Linda asked Aziraphale. “So I can get a look at his eyes?”

“They look like a serpent’s eyes,” Aziraphale said fretfully. He shook Crowley again. “Crowley!”

“But if they’ve rolled back, or if his pupils are dilated, it might tell me something,” Linda said.

Well then. Gently, Aziraphale removed Crowley’s spectacles.

His eyes were sunshine yellow as always, pupils constricted to the smallest slit. He held very still, viper-still, muscles coiled as if to strike.

Linda got up out of her seat to crouch next to him. She looked into his eyes. “You’re right about the reptile,” she said wryly. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Is he venomous,” Amenadiel said lowly.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “But he would never bite a human.” Linda hesitated, looked at Aziraphale, clearly on the verge of backing away. “_Never_, Dr. Martin,” Aziraphale told her fiercely. “Crowley, please.” He shook him again.

And then, like a switch, Crowley snapped out of it. He sucked in a deep breath, trembled hard all over, and then winced, like the world was too bright. “Where’re my sunglasses?” he asked. “Aziraphale?”

“My dear, you gave me a terrible fright!” Aziraphale said, giving them back.

“It’s f-freezing,” Crowley said. He shuddered.

“No, it’s not,” Aziraphale spluttered, rubbing his arms. “It’s quite warm! What happened?”

“I—nothing? It just got cold? Angel?”

“That wasn’t cold,” Linda said. “Crowley, that looked like a seizure.”

The color was rapidly draining out of Crowley’s face, but he didn’t look like he heard Linda. He shivered hard.

“Shift your shape, my dear, you’re frozen,” Aziraphale told him, concerned. His arms did feel very cold, even through his shirt.

“Is that wise?” Linda said. “Does it take a lot of—oh!”

Crowley shifted, a tiny green snake coiled miserably in his chair. Aziraphale snatched him; he felt like a block of ice.

“Oh, dear, come here.” He held him close, carefully placing a warm hand underneath him, to warm his belly. Crowley let out a breath.

“Thank you,” he muttered. “I’m jussst—I’m jussst going to—” He slipped up Aziraphale’s chest and into his jumper, coiling around his neck. He pressed his little cheek to Aziraphale’s carotid and proceeded to sponge heat like it was the dead of winter in London, and not a perfectly temperate day in LA. Heat-seeking behavior. In summer. Unnatural, Aziraphale thought, worried. 

Watchie whimpered and put her head on Aziraphale’s thigh, llama and all. Her eyes were huge and concerned. He patted her.

“Ooookay,” Linda said slowly. “Is that normal?”

“Nope,” said Raguel. “That’s a bad thing. That didn’t look like a seizure to me.”

“Absence seizure,” Linda said, rising. “Can angels have seizures? Or demons, or whatever?”

“Not really,” Amenadiel said. “Our minds aren’t as connected to our bodies as yours are.”

“Crowley has had this body for six thousand years,” Aziraphale said. “Well. Both bodies. They have always been in perfect working order.” At his neck, Crowley huffed out a breath. He’d fallen into a lethargy, of course, like any snake who was too cold. It wasn’t quite sleep, but it was near enough.

Aziraphale felt the strangest, strongest urge to murder something. It was a Guardian-of-the-Eastern-Gate feeling, so he mostly put it to the side. No point in murdering people who hadn’t hurt Crowley, he told himself. Himself wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Is there are doctor he could see?” asked Linda. “Has he had seizures before?”

“Not a one.” Aziraphale told her, shaking his head. “I could give him a healing miracle, but there’s nothing to heal, as far as I can tell[2].” He reached up and stroked Crowley’s nose. He nuzzled a little at Aziraphale’s fingers, slow and drowsy and not really conscious. He didn’t feel like he was ill, and he was rapidly warming up with Aziraphale’s body heat.

“Do it anyway,” Linda said. “As a precaution, if it won’t hurt him otherwise.”

It wouldn’t hurt him, and it was doctor’s orders. Aziraphale did the miracle, and he added a very small, tentative blessing, too. Crowley sighed, responded. The blight was wispy and kind of sideways because he was only half-conscious, but it was there, nonetheless. The twining was comforting.

Amenadiel and Raguel both choked on air.

“What,” rasped Amenadiel, “What was that[3]?”

“What was what?” asked Linda.

“Ugh, that was the paradox,” Raguel said. He pushed his plate away, looking a little green. “I just lost my appetite.”

“The—the what?” spluttered Amenadiel.

Aziraphale felt his face heat. “My apologies,” he muttered. “Crowley tends to initiate in front of Lucifer rather a lot and I—I got used to it. And humans generally—well—don’t notice.” He smiled tightly at Linda.

“You should not do that,” Amenadiel said. He sounded scandalized, and that was—well, actually, that was rather comical, though there was a good dose of shame in there, too.

“Do—what?” Linda asked.

“Oh—” huffed Aziraphale, truly embarrassed now, “I—couldn’t explain—” 

“Invisible, theoretical sex,” Raguel said loudly. Aziraphale yelped. “Very fast, feels like being dumped into a vat of eggs. _Disgusting. _That was more about you than I needed to know. Please do not do it while I am on the same continent.”

“No it is not!” Aziraphale huffed. “I am an angel! He is a demon! We do not have sex[4]!”

“I know for a fact that both angels and demons have sex,” Linda said dryly. “But did you do the miracle? And is he up for something like that?”

“Of course I did,” Aziraphale huffed. He was a little offended that this human though Aziraphale might do anything that wasn’t in Crowley’s best interest, or against Crowley’s will. A paradox had to be willing; that was the point. “And actually the paradox tends to—help. With metaphysical problems.” He could feel his face flush. Paradoxes had helped him a great deal during his convalescence. They were unique, after all, and only the choices of Aziraphale, Principality could lead to such a marvelous thing. Aziraphael the Cherub would never be able to conceive of choices at all, let alone a paradox. It also helped that they felt nice, while everything Naomi had done had most certainly not felt pleasant. “He’s warming up as we speak.” He slipped a finger under Crowley’s throat to check again, just to be sure. He was definitely warming, a positive sign for a snake.

Linda looked anxious, but she sat back down. “Alright,” she said, “Alright. Let me know if he gets cold again, okay? Or, or if he stops breathing. Is he supposed to be sleeping? In a human that’s not a great sign but—”

“He is a snake right now,” Aziraphale said when she trailed. “A snake who is too cold falls into lethargy. This is natural.” The lethargy was natural, anyway. The cold was not. But it was dissipating, so there was that. Even Crowley’s little tail was tucked up amongst his coils, otherwise Aziraphale would fiddle with it. It was a comfort, and Crowley liked the fidget.

Linda was frowning. “I’ll take your word on that. Wake him up in a half hour; I want to see how he is. I’m really not this kind of doctor,” she added, cross.

That might not be feasible, depending on how cold he was. But he was already warming. “I believe you’re the world’s only celestial specialist,” Aziraphale told her. Abruptly, viscerally, he missed the back room of his bookshop. He could hide Crowley in his shirt and drink hot cocoa until everything was alright again.

Amenadiel chuckled. “I suppose you are,” he told her lightly.

“Well then, as a specialist,” she said, resting her chin on her palm, a little playful[5], “I want you to tell me about this sex thing.”

Aziraphale sputtered.

Raguel hooted. “Got him there!” he said. “He’s never going to answer you,” he added. He grinned at Aziraphale, clearly wanting the lighthearted topic badly enough to grasp it with both hands. 

“You can,” Linda said. Her smile was just a little wicked. 

Aziraphale sank into his chair.

“Biology or preference?” Raguel returned, perfectly sane, of course, since they weren’t talking about the Fall, or wings, or any of that. Aziraphale wanted to melt into a puddle of embarrassment.

“Both,” Linda said.

“Angels are sexless,” Raguel said. “All angels. Isn’t that right, brother?” He quirked an eyebrow at Amenadiel.

“Yes,” Amenadiel said, unfazed and apparently amused. “When you get to Earth you choose. I chose male many centuries ago. Many of us do. It’s easier.”

“Okay,” Linda said slowly, “Okay. So really you’re just—genderless.”

“No,” Aziraphale managed. Biology he could do. “Genderless is human. We are not. The word doesn’t apply.”

“Like bacteria,” Raguel said. “Like strawberry plants. You wouldn’t call a strawberry genderless; it’s a strawberry. No sex. No culture around sex, so no gender. The fact that everyone at this table has had sex with a human at one point or another makes all of us deviants.” He smiled, amused.

Linda sat back. “Huh,” she said[6].

Aziraphale looked at the tabletop. “We were deviants anyway,” he said, a little more darkly than he intended. “We prefer to live on earth.”

“That is true,” Amenadiel chuckled. “But that’s why you started Angel Network, isn’t it, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale shook his head. His shoulders slumped. “I started it to keep track of Islington, truth be told,” he sighed. That had definitely failed. “It just—grew.” It was lovely that it grew, really, especially now when he had lost contact with most of Heaven. It was good to have friends. 

“I’m glad for it,” Raguel told him quietly. “You two have pulled me out of enough fires. I wish I could return the favor, but, you know.” He shrugged with one shoulder. Too fragile, was Raguel, to ever really come through.

“I’m glad for it too,” Amenadiel said. “It’s—nice. To have other earthbound angels around.” He smiled. Tentatively, Aziraphale smiled back.

“But you’re not earthbound,” he said.

“No, I'm not,” Amenadiel agreed, but he added proudly, “but I chose to come back, on a semi-permanent basis.”

‘Til his friends died, Aziraphale thought, reading between the lines. He was going to stay ‘til his friends died.

“That’s wonderful, Amenadiel,” Linda said. He beamed at her.

Crowley would have something sarcastic to say, Aziraphale thought. He petted his demon’s nose, and fretted quietly. Crowley was far warmer now, though, and he sighed at Aziraphale’s touch.

He woke by the time they piled back into Linda’s car, flicking his tongue softly against Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale scooped him down into his arms.

“Well, look who decided to join us,” he murmured. “Are you feeling alright?”

Crowley looked a little confused. “It was just a nap, Aziraphale,” he said.

“No my dear, you, er, stopped responding, and then got quite cold—”

Crowley shook his serpentine head. “I feel fine,” he said. “I don’t remember zoning out, but I did get—really cold, didn’t I? That was sort of weird.” Aziraphale offered a small piece of omelet from a takeaway container, and Crowley snapped it up from his fingers. 

“No lingering effects?” Linda asked him.

“I feel fine,” Crowley said again. “Though I’d like more of that omelet.”

Aziraphale obliged him, feeding him bites of leftover omelet from the take-away container, and he seemed perfectly fine, if a little embarrassed that he’d missed half of the meal.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on it,” Linda said. She turned down a side street. “It didn’t look good, Crowley. And we can’t take you to a hospital—would you mind staying at mine tonight? You’re both welcome.” She hesitated. “And Watchie, too, if she promises not to break anything.”

Watchdog squeaked her toy, as if promising just that.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, “We couldn’t—” But he looked down at Crowley, and he thought of the Atlantic Ocean, and its shimmering surface even at night, and he shivered. There was no flying back to London, not for him. He didn’t know who he’d be, on the other side.

“You can stay with me,” Raguel said. “I’ve a living room, or you could miracle a new bedroom. Watchdog can come too. It’s nice to have the company.” He smiled tremulously.

Somehow, that was more appealing than Linda’s. But Aziraphale looked down at Crowley, small and green with his sweet yellow eyes. He looked deceptively vulnerable, though of course his venom could knock a whole herd of horses flat. Aziraphale scratched under his little chin.

“Will you be on your best behavior, Watchdog?” he asked softly. When she huffed in agreement, he turned to Raguel, who looked sad.

“Only because she’s a doctor, dear,” he said. “I’m concerned.”

“I’m bloody fine, angel, stop fretting,” muttered Crowley. “We can stay with Rags.”

“Indulge me,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley flicked his tongue. “Fine. Sorry, Rags. Maybe tomorrow night?”

“Alright,” Raguel said, sitting a little straighter. Poor thing really did like company. He needed to get himself some humans, in truth, but it seemed no one had caught his fancy. Or perhaps he was frightened of their mortality. It was hard to say.

Crowley stayed serpentine, and in Aziraphale’s lap, for the remainder of the trip.

_________

[1] Listen. He’d made that mistake once and it had blown up in his face. Amenadiel was never meddling again.

[2] Not that he was a very good healer anyway.

[3] He’d seen something like that before in Aziraphale’s bookshop, once. It had been horrifying then, too. Drippy and sticky all at once.

[4] Unless we are both either very drunk, or deeply, truly bored, Aziraphale didn’t add. The human way was _messy_ and singular, and there were so many more interesting ways to experience love together. Paradoxes had layers; they were much nicer. And sometimes, if Crowley could be persuaded to wake early enough, which he often could, they would fly out to meet the dawn. Angels didn’t actually have anything so tacky as mating flights, but there were games you could play, in the burning light of morning, that were along similar lines. Chasing games and dancing games and pattern games. Aziraphale had chased the tip of Crowley’s wing from sunrise down into the depths of the ocean, the whole of him alight with laughter. Crowley had let himself be caught, down in the dark quiet of the seafloor, and they had stayed there, curled around and through each other and insubstantial as fog, for a solid week. Far better than a single moment of human orgasm. 

[5] Absence seizures were not such a big deal, in reality. If Crowley were human, she would send him to a hospital to be checked out, because he had no history, but otherwise wouldn’t freak out. What was alarming was that he wasn’t human. Demons were not supposed to have seizures. Still, the best course of action was the one she proposed, and it might help everyone else to lighten the mood.

[6] She didn’t say it, but she thought of Lucifer, and his powers of desire. What must it have been like, to get down to earth, and find that desire had whole other meanings to humans? And if sex made him a deviant—well of course he would embrace it. It put a new and different spin on Lucifer’s proclivities. She should have asked Amenadiel about this years ago. But she said nothing, because she took the Hippocratic Oath seriously, and Lucifer deserved a trustworthy confidant.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for this chapter, I'd like to thank the wonderful [Daegaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer). For those of you new to the Good Omens fandom, I urge you to go read all her fics, because you will be in for a treat! She has always been one of my favorite Good Omens authors, though I was mostly a lurker in those days. I wrote the stuff about World War 1 in this chapter, and then belatedly realized that I'd stolen a bunch from her; I changed it up a bit but the general concept is still totally Daegaer's. So do yourself a favor and go read [Bright With His Spendour ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/99482); it's an incredible fic that stayed with me for literally years. 
> 
> (....And then read the Sound of Omens. Please. I still cackle at that one)

Linda’s house was a lovely affair, and she even had a guest room, where Watchdog promptly sprawled out and fell asleep. She did have tea, though it was horrid American tea, but she sat with Aziraphale on her sofa and Aziraphale tentatively brought up Naomi because Linda was rather an expert. She listened with rapt horror and fascination, which ended with effusive praise about his personal strength, which was rather lovely, to be quite honest. She didn’t know much about angel-style brainwashing, of course, but she did know about Post Traumatic Stress.

Aziraphale did too. Crowley had been in the trenches during the First World War, and he had come home to Aziraphale’s bookshop at the end. But modern medicine had made great strides since then. They compared notes, and if Aziraphale could put to one side that he was talking about himself, and pretend he was talking about poor, trembling Crowley in 1917, the conversation became more than bearable. She had very helpful advice, anyway. 

Crowley himself had swapped back to human shape at one point and started sniffing around Linda’s potted plants, but he listened with a sharp ear. He spared Aziraphale a few knowing glances that Aziraphale could feel even though the sunglasses. He knew what Aziraphale was doing, of course[1]. Aziraphale knew he didn’t mind; Crowley was very vocal about it, when he minded things. 

Aziraphale was just explaining about chocolate potato pudding, which he had rather liked, and Crowley had called him absolutely mad, when Crowley’s phone rang.

Aziraphale’s head came up at the sudden noise, and Linda made a quiet, comforting sound beside him. Crowley frowned down at his phone and answered it.

“Boss?” he asked, puzzled. He stood on the other side of the room; just a little too far for Aziraphale to make out the other half of the conversation. “No,” he added after a moment. “All quiet here.” Another pause. “What? No. Of course we won’t let anything—Lucifer. I will _bite_ any monster that so much as gets _near_ Linda Martin, and you have not seen Aziraphale with his sword. Okay, yes you have. She’s well protected, anyway. What about that detective of yours?” He held the phone away from his ear, and Lucifer was loud enough that Aziraphale could hear his response.

_“How dare you insinuate that I wouldn’t defend her with my very _life_, you insolent—!”_

“Boss—boss! Stop—just shut up for a second; I’m just checking you idiot!” Crowley hissed, not an ounce of fear in him.

Aziraphale and Linda exchanged an approving look.

“If you haven’t found it, or haven’t found any evidence of it, it’s still out there, so you should keep your people close, is all I’m saying. Is Trixie with her mother tonight?”

Silence.

“Mm-hm,” said Crowley. “Mm-hm. Listen, I’ll call Raguel to sneak around Daniel’s door, if you call Amenadiel to watch over Ella. Of course Rags’ll do it. I told you: you do stuff for Angel Network. Yeah, Rags is next to useless but after what he did to Asteroth I bet you he’ll smite a monster, too. Besides, you like Dan the least out of all your humans, right? Kidding! I’m kidding.”

Silence.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, “Good plan. You might want to pick up Trixie from school yourself. Just—saying. Okay? Yeah. We’ve got Linda, though. I’ll call Rags. Great. See you later.” He hung up.

“No sign of our monster yet,” he told Aziraphale and Linda. “Nothing funny at the precinct, either. I told the boss to keep his people close, and I’m going to send Raguel to stalk Daniel tonight, just for peace of mind.”

“He can’t do much,” Aziraphale said.

“He’ll smite a monster from the other world,” Crowley said. “After Asteroth? The way he’s looking for it, all determined? I’m sure of it.” He dialed on his phone, presumably to call Raguel. “Hi Rags. Listen—”

“Is it really that dangerous?” Linda asked in an undertone.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale told her gravely. “We don’t know what it is, but the monsters of Nightmare World are terrible. We must assume the worst.”

Crowley hung up, apparently satisfied. “All we know is that Asteroth thought it was cute, and that it’s from Nightmare World,” he said, strolling over to a nearby houseplant. Its leaves trembled noticeably. “It isn’t a pretty combination.”

Abruptly there was a knock on the door, and then it opened before Linda could respond. “Seriously?” Crowley muttered, exasperated.

“Linda?”

Aziraphale sucked in a shocked, mostly unnecessary breath. The room, before so wide and bright and pleasant, with Linda to chat to and Crowley unafraid of Lucifer, narrowed into a terrifying point. Mazikeen of the Lilum, who made him tense on good days, was striding with perfect ease through the front door.

“Maze,” Linda said fondly. She frowned at Aziraphale. “You okay?”

Mazikeen of the Lilum was a Lesser Demon, but a powerful one. Aziraphale had fought Greater Demons at the Gate, once, while he patrolled the Garden. She was strong, but he was stronger. He hadn’t seen her since this madness with Naomi.

It was kind of like dangling a snake in front of a mongoose. That was a terrible metaphor; he loved his serpent. He held very still and focused very hard on who he was. It had gone a little slippery, all the sudden. 

“Angel?” said Crowley, concerned. He walked over.

Mazikeen looked confused. “What’re they doing here?”

“Uh, long story,” Crowley told her. “Aziraphale?”

“Mazikeen. Please stay there,” Aziraphale said. He wanted it to be in Enochian and was rather pleased when it came out in English. At his side, Linda got up abruptly. It was a little jarring, until he realized what she was doing; she’d seized Crowley by the wrist and dragged him in front of Aziraphale.

“Whatever you do,” she told him, “It works. Do it now. Before he hurts my best friend.”

Crowley didn’t need telling twice. He sank to one knee in front of Aziraphale, took off his sunglasses. He reached out with the other hand and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek; the touch was grounding. “Hey,” he said softly. “Can you give me three things?”

Three things. Three things he remembered about the world. He’d just been talking about—“You came back from the war in 1917,” Aziraphale whispered. “You were in terrible shape. You knocked down one of my bookshelves and hid as a snake in the rafters for three days.” He swallowed. Two more. Neither about Crowley. “The fog over London. I think I did eighteen miracles the first time it happened, the first time it was bad, and people still died.” One more. “Mycroft Holmes figured out what I was as a child. He was six. His brother—only suspects.”

Crowley kissed his forehead, a human gesture, and a grounding one. “Where are you?”

“The house belongs to Linda Martin,” Aziraphale said, calming down. “We are in Los Angeles. A demon I have met only once has walked through the door and I am overreacting.”

“There you go.” Crowley smiled at him. “No singing necessary.”

“I do like when you sing. Mazikeen, my lady, will you please come closer—slowly?” He didn’t take his eyes off Crowley’s.

“I’m not your lady,” Mazikeen said dryly, but she did come closer. “What the hell was that?”

“That was Post Traumatic Stress, Maze,” Linda said.

Aziraphale lost the rest of the conversation. The noise in his head roared to life again as Mazikeen got closer, begging him to slay her, screaming that an enemy was near, and a soft, horrifying echo was saying it wasn’t one enemy but two. He looked hard into Crowley’s golden eyes, Crowley who wasn’t an enemy, about whom he was actually quite worried. Crowley stayed with him, as Mazikeen got to the arm of the sofa.

“What’s your rank?” Crowley asked him softly.

“I am not a Cherub,” Aziraphale told him. “I am a Principality. Amenadiel said he might set me free.”

“Good. Still with me?”

“_Yes_.” The noise died down, slowly. He broke the stare and looked over at Mazikeen. He still wanted to smite her, but it felt more—manageable. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I haven’t been near another true demon besides Crowley since this happened. I won’t hurt you, but—” and this was embarrassing to ask, but it was also necessary for the sake of the integrity of poor Linda’s house, “Please don’t draw any weapons; I’ll react badly.”

Mazikeen cocked her head. “Lucifer said you got your head scrambled,” she said.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Crowley replied. He was still kneeling, and he took one of Aziraphale’s hands.

“I could take you,” Mazikeen said casually.

“Maze!” hissed Linda.

“Take me where?” Aziraphale asked. “Are we going somewhere?” He looked to Crowley, puzzled. Crowley’s lips were twitching as if at a marvelous joke, but Aziraphale didn’t get it.

Mazikeen stared at him. Then she snorted, and outright laughed. “I like him,” she told Linda.

“Well, great,” Crowley muttered. He stood up again, but only to sit next to Aziraphale on the sofa.

“Crowley,” Linda murmured. Crowley arched an eyebrow at her. “That was impressive.”

Crowley shrugged a little.

“I mean it. Both of you. That was very impressive.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Forgetting that not every demon is a combatant is impressive?” he asked, probably more bitterly than was necessarily. Crowley made a small sound and leaned on his shoulder.

“No. Fighting it that hard, Aziraphale, that was incredibly impressive.” She smiled at him, the bespectacled little woman, and Aziraphale had just the smallest sense of why Lucifer was so very fond of her. He smiled back at her, a little awkwardly, unsure what to say.

“ANY-way,” Mazikeen said. “It’s Tuesday afternoon.” She crossed her arms.

Linda smiled at her. “Yes, it is. And I don’t have any patients. Crowley, I saw you looking at my indoor plants, before. Do you keep plants?”

Aziraphale snorted. “He terrorizes plants,” he said.

“You. Terrorize plants,” Linda echoed.

“I have the healthiest houseplants in London,” Crowley said virtuously. Mazikeen’s eyes went huge.

“Teach me how to torture plants,” she blurted.

“N-no,” Linda said, “No. That’s not—no. We fix my back garden on Tuesday afternoons because I freed up the time. I was going to ask if you wanted to help, if you like gardening?”

Crowley’s whole face lit up. He turned huge, earnest eyes to Aziraphale.

“Go, dear boy, I’m fine,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Have fun.”

“You’re welcome to join too, but if it’s not your thing there’s a back deck,” Linda said. “I have a little hammock, if you want to sit there. I’ve got books too—”

Aziraphale smiled at her. “Will you recommend one?” he asked, because they were probably contemporary [2]. 

“Sure, come on.” She beckoned Aziraphale into her bedroom. That was all a little improper, but when he looked back to Crowley he was laughing at him, so perhaps not. How modern.

But he was soothed when he saw her room: two whole walls were covered with bookshelves, and it made him smile.

“So, if you haven’t heard of it, I’m going to give you this one,” she said, bending to the second-to-bottom of one of her shelves. “It’s kind of a kid’s book, so I’m thinking you haven’t. You’ll be able to finish it today, I’m sure. Have you read it?” She held out a blue paperback called The Phantom Tollbooth.

Aziraphale wasn’t really one for fantasy, but it wasn’t anything Adam had given him. “I haven’t,” he admitted, and wondered why, out of her entire collection – not as impressive as his of course but still not bad for a human, she would give him this one. A children’s book, no less. Aziraphale was enough of a bibliophile and curious enough that he took it when she offered.

“You’re welcome to anything in here, of course,” Linda added. “The psychology books are down there.” She indicated a bottom shelf with a tilt of her head. “If you want to read up on yourself or on Crowley.” She smiled.

It was a very generous offer. “Thank you,” Aziraphale said.

“Come on.” She led him back to the sitting room.

Watchdog had woken, apparently, and she raced to meet Aziraphale, tail wagging. He ruffled her ears and she hopped a little, clearly wanting to jump but behaving herself for Linda. He chuckled.

“Come on, my dear, let’s go outside.”

Aziraphale and Watchdog followed Linda and the others to her back yard. It was not large, and definitely in progress; she had many bare spaces, half-dug up. Crowley went at it immediately, with absolute delight, and they got to work under the hot sun.

Aziraphale got himself into the hammock[3] and watched Watchdog prance around Crowley, growling at the disobedient plants. Linda’s easy laughter carried far, and Maze’s demands did too. Aziraphale watched her threaten a dandelion with a spade before uprooting it. Crowley practically applauded.

Silly. He turned to Linda’s book. He was quickly lost in it.

She had excellent taste. Aziraphale adored the English language, even more so lately because he kept slipping into Enochian. How had she known? The Phantom Tollbooth was an absolute celebration of everything wonderful about English, and the Humbug reminded him of Crowley. Children’s book or no, it was lovely. He settled in, delighted. He’d finished it by supper time. 

Mazikeen stayed for supper, and then insisted on movies. Aziraphale didn’t watch many movies, truth be told. Linda had pulled out something called the Hunger Games for Mazikeen specifically. Aziraphale had rather expected it to be about cooking but it was most definitely not. Crowley ended up a snake again, hiding in his jumper for most of it.

Watchdog actually growled at the wolf creatures at the end, protecting her demon, of course. She was a good dog.

“Seriously?” laughed Mazikeen, who had somehow become Maze over the course of the afternoon. “In his sweater? You are the _worst_ demon.”

“Oh, stop, it’s darling,” Linda said, though the gleam in her eye was also teasing. 

“He’s very sensitive!” Aziraphale said defensively.

“I’ll bet.” Maze licked her lips salaciously and Aziraphale sputtered at her, somewhere between protective and jealous[4].

“Not making it better, angel,” muttered Crowley. He peeked out of Aziraphale’s neckline, saw that the scene wasn’t done, and dived back inside. 

“Well, yes, I see that—” Aziraphale said peevishly, but Linda let out a peal of delighted laughter.

“Can I adopt you?” she asked Aziraphale, eyes twinkling. “You talk about angels adopting humans all the time; what about the other way around? I mean, I think I adopted Maze.” She smiled at Maze, who shrugged at her.

“I’m cool with it,” she said, obviously pleased.

“Oh, well, you don’t simply _adopt _a human it takes—years—decades—”

“Takes you decades maybe,” Crowley muttered inside his shirt. “Took me three days to adopt Masaharta.”

“Yes, but he was sixteen, dear boy!” 

“Best pickpocket that side of the Nile,” Crowley sighed. “Oh, I still think the world’s a duller place without him. He’d’ve loved that wretched movie.”

“It takes Raguel ages too, you know!”

“Raguel’s certifiably insane, angel, he is not a good example.”

“It took Amenadiel about two years,” Linda said slowly, thoughtfully. “Can I—adopt him back? How does it work?”

Crowley poked out of Aziraphale’s neckline again. They looked at each other. They shrugged.

“You just—know,” Crowley said, a little uselessly.

“Hmm,” said Linda[5].

“Well,” Maze drawled, “This is all fascinating but it’s close to midnight and the imps are out.” She rose, gracefully.

“Still?” Aziraphale asked, aghast.

“Well, Lucifer hasn’t closed the holes yet,” Maze said. “Because he’s basically useless, and I’m the only one actually doing anything about it. Open holes mean imps, which is seriously cutting into my bounty-hunting time. Humans are way more fun; imps are lame.” She paused. “Actually, while you’re here, could you put a ward around this house? He tells me your paradox things are unbeatable, and since he’s not actually, you know, _fixing anything, _they’re not going to go away. I like you un-possessed.” She gave Linda a wide-eyed, almost sad look. 

“I like me un-possessed too?” Linda said, baffled. “Is that—something that can happen?”

“Don’t think about it too hard,” Crowley said dryly.

“Well?” Maze snapped.

Slightly taken aback, Aziraphale said, “Of course we’ll do it!”

“You’ll have to leave something behind,” Crowley told her, “So you can get in later. It’ll block you too, if you don’t.”

Maze thought about this. She stripped off her shirt and offered it. She was not wearing a brassiere. “Will this work?”

Aziraphale sputtered at her.

“Should do!” Crowley said cheerfully.

“Maze,” Linda said, but Maze grinned, waved, and called out an easy good night before walking blithely out the door, shirtless.

There was a short moment of silence.

“I don’t know how she keeps shocking me,” Linda said. “I’ve known her for years. She’s my best friend.”

“Ehh, Lilim,” Crowley said. He waved his tail like it was a hand. “That’s practically what they’re designed to do. She’s downright normal, frankly. Way more normal than I expected from Lucifer’s Right Hand.”

“And the rest?” Linda asked.

“Totally deranged. Lilith keeps trying to steal the throne, but here’s the thing: Lilith’s technically speaking an imp, and an imp can’t rule Hell. Like literally can’t. Like she falls off the throne and catches fire, can’t. Her kids are all good little soldiers, some for mummy and some for Lucifer. They’re all totally demented down there.” Crowley shrugged, a complicated motion for a snake.

“I never thought to asked Lucifer about Hell,” Linda murmured. “Like, the politics. It must be—awful.”

Crowley shrugged again. “It is. It’s why I like Earth. Lucifer offered me a rank and stuff. He offered me the bloody throne, but I never wanted to be king; I was very clear about this.”

“He what?” gasped Aziraphale, horrified.

“I said no. Of course I said no, angel. Firstly, Hastur would slaughter me; secondly, what would I even do with Hell; and thirdly, where would I put _you_?”

Aziraphale felt something in him flutter. He leaned forward and put his forehead against the Crowley’s little snaky one. “Oh,” he said.

Linda cleared her throat after a moment. “That’s your version of making out, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale was about to ask _making out what _when Crowley spoke over him. “Kind of,” he said, clearly amused. “You want us to paradox your house so the imps can’t get in? It’s not a bad idea.”

“Angel-style-sex makes houses safe from imps.” Linda sounded completely incredulous. Aziraphale felt his face flame.

“No, it’s not—It’s not—”

“Waaay more deviant than that!” Crowley crowed, not helpful in the least. “Angel style sex would be with other angels, Linda,” he cackled. “This is a bear having enthusiastic, very, very consensual sex with a tiger. Practically bestiality.”

“Crowley!”

“I’m the tiger,” Crowley told him, very seriously. He flicked his little black tongue. 

“I hate you,” Aziraphale replied and Linda burst out laughing.

“Yes,” she gasped, cackling, “Please protect my house from evil with bear-tiger sex!”

“You heard the lady,” Crowley told Aziraphale, yellow eyes twinkling, but he didn’t cast the blight first. That made all the difference: the paradox could not occur without consent – that was practically the point of the whole thing, that the twining was gentle and not in violence as it should be – but this was Crowley’s way of checking in. They were teasing. He wanted it to be Aziraphale’s choice, too, and without pressure or embarrassment. He was a sweet love, really, was Crowley.

Over the course of history, Aziraphale had had eight human lovers. Abida was not one of them; Abida had been beloved in different ways, truer ways, than simply sex. To be quite honest, none of them had been very good, or even very kind, though he had tried his best to make them that way. Three of them had belonged to him, and he had loved those three for real, and stayed with them over the course of their lives. In the end, human sex was not something Aziraphale particularly enjoyed.

Abida would have laughed, if he could see Crowley now, the demon Aziraphale was so worried about, in those days. They had been enemies then, and Crowley had always been unpredictable. He kept blowing up the Abida’s ovens – it was very frightening, when you had fragile humans to protect. Now, he gazed at Aziraphale with serpent’s eyes, waiting for him to make up his mind, without pressure or expectation. Abida would have liked him a great deal.

He cast the blessing, spun it like yarn and lassoed it around the walls of the house. Crowley’s blight was gentler, as if apologetic for the teasing. He felt it down to his core, and it was lovely beyond reckoning. Aziraphale took a breath, felt his eyes close. He eased into it as though into a bath, and without limbs or corporation Crowley embraced him just as warmly. A paradox with a purpose was nicer, really. Angels were made to have tasks.

By the time it sank into the walls, Crowley was huffing a little against his neck. They were both grasping at it, trying to linger in the joining, sinking into each other, blight and blessing not just twined but merged into something new. It was too good not to.

“_Too slow,_” Crowley said in Enochian, a little wild. He was nearly panting. “_That was too slow. Kind of—lightheaded_.” 

Aziraphale blinked. The remainder of the paradox sank into the walls, fading from reach. He came back to himself, lightheaded as well. “Oops,” he said in English. Crowley burst out laughing.

They giggled at each other.

“You guys okay?” Linda asked. It had only been a minute or so[6].

“Fine, fine,” Aziraphale giggled, flapping a hand. “You’re warded. No imps.”

Crowley snickered, slid out of Aziraphale’s jumper, and then transformed back into man-shape all sprawled on the couch[7]. “You are so stupid,” he declared, and cackled.

“You didn’t say anything!” Aziraphale sputtered.

“Didn’t think I had to! It’s not just no imps, it’s no anything, you might want to alert your postman; Aziraphale’s a moron,” Crowley told Linda, and chortled.

“You don’t know that!”

“That you’re a moron? Oh yes I do.”

“It won’t block the postman!”

“Too slow, angel! You put too much in it! I am actually out of breath!”

“Well, I had a good afternoon! It was nice!”

Crowley laughed and laughed. “Me too,” he said, giddy. “Me too.”

Linda had her chin on her fist on the arm of her chair. “You guys are really cute,” she said. “Am I going to be able to find my house again?”

“Probably,” Aziraphale told her.

“Great,” she said dryly. “And on that note, I think it’s bedtime for me. I have patients tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Oh yes, of course.” Aziraphale smiled at her.

“G’night!” Crowley called. As soon as the door to her bedroom closed, he pounced, knocking Aziraphale backwards on the sofa, laughing. They wrestled a little, mostly pushing at each other and giggling. It was a fairly new game, just since they’d first twined themselves together after the world didn’t end, but it was a fun one. Crowley was his mortal enemy, after all.

Crowley nipped at Aziraphale’s neck – no venom, never venom – and hissed, “You’re dead, I win, I got you—” before Aziraphale flipped them and they crashed onto the floor.

“I win,” Aziraphale said, holding him down, grinning.

“It’s a draw, you prat, we’re both dead,” Crowley laughed. “Get off,” he added, not very seriously. Watchdog came over to sniff at them, concerned. They generally didn’t do this when she was around; it made her nervous[8].

“No,” said Aziraphale, and collapsed on top of him. “I’m not hurting him, my dear, it’s alright,” he added to Watchdog, who flopped onto her belly next to them, eyes wide.

“He’s a prat, but he’s fine, pup,” Crowley told her. His arms snaked around Aziraphale’s waist and he hugged him, relaxing into the floor. He even put his head back and showed throat, sighing. That was almost unheard-of trust, from a demon.

This was good. There was no Cherub in the back of his mind screaming to murder the demon; the Cherub was roosting, content the way Cherubs were never content, because he was just Aziraphale. He felt all fizzy from the high of the paradox, and Crowley was warm and healthy and alive underneath him. 

Aziraphale bent to tuck his nose in the base of Crowley’s exposed throat. “I love you,” he said quietly.

Crowley closed his eyes and thrummed at him, low and content, and it wasn’t the words, but it meant the same thing. They stayed there a good long while and not a single bad thing happened.

_________

[1] 1917 had been a year both terrible and wonderful. The Great War had been one of the worst experiences of Crowley’s very long life, though nothing could top Falling for bad. He’d hid from loud noises til 1921. But coming home from that war and all its muddy, freezing horrors, had been a comfort indescribable. Through the nightmares, through the rage, through the fear, there had been books and familiarity and Aziraphale to remind him that the world was bigger than the War, even if it was a Great War. And then the war had ended in 1918, and he’d got the Bentley in ’26, and life moved forward. He didn’t wear poppies. Poppies were for remembrance and for love. He’d been there on Hell’s direct orders, to damn souls and make things worse. Not Lucifer’s; Lucifer gave no shits about incoming souls. It had been Dagon, a manager, one of those demons who actually ran Hell, and who definitely did care. Awful bloody war.   
  
Anyway. If it made it easier for Aziraphale to ask questions for himself if he was pretending to talk about Crowley, so be it. It was a century ago, now, and long over.

[2] Anything not a bible and dating later than roughly 1950.

[3] It was difficult. The hammock kept moving and he nearly fell over twice. Crowley was definitely laughing at him from across the yard.

[4] Mostly protective. Crowley’d seduced all kinds of humans when he was still working and had more bad associations than you could shake a stick at. 

[5] Notes, she thought. She needed a notebook for Celestials. She belonged to TWO Celestials and still had no idea how that relationship worked. She didn’t even like the word belonged so much – what was she, a piece of meat? But they all said “my humans” with such affection. They didn’t seem to get jealous, really, though Lucifer sputtered sometimes. They were quite protective. What did belonging really mean? She needed more information about their biology! Did the fact that Lucifer and Amenadiel were on opposite ends of the spectrum, angel and devil, matter? Did it change how they perceived things? It must, it must. But Crowley was _so_ different from Lucifer and Maze, so much more grounded. Was that because of Aziraphale, time spent on Earth, or something else? So many questions.

[6] A _really cool_ minute. Her walls had glowed with strings of light like fireflies, blinking silver and red. And they moved, too, snaking patterns up and down. Watchdog had chased them, playfully, though she never actually touched them. It was lazy and without the urgency or climax of sex, and foreign enough for her not to be uncomfortable with the display. She hadn’t been able to see anything the last time they paradoxed. Were they different every time? (Yes. The answer was yes.)

[7] Linda had seen that transformation a few times now. It was still totally weird and unsettling. But it was oddly—nice, to see the Serpent of Eden himself cracking up and relaxed on her couch. Weird to think of him as the actual, real Original Tempter or whatever, but there was no denying he was a snake. A rather sweet snake, but still. 

[8] They were opposites and she belonged to Master Crowley and Aziraphale was definitely The Enemy but she LOVED Aziraphale, he was her angel, she _loved_ him, he gave her treats and threw the ball and rubbed her belly and they CAN’T turn on each other, it would ruin everything!  
  
Watchie was a large, highly intelligent purebred dog who lived in a flat. She was a little neurotic.


	8. Chapter 8

Not a single bad thing happened for the next two days. They stayed with Raguel after that, though Raguel spent most of his time out of the house. He claimed he was _being a detective, _just as Chloe Decker ordered him to, whatever that meant.

Aziraphale only lost himself twice, and once Watchie pulled him back, and the other he pulled himself back before Crowley had even noticed. Though they had moved to Raguel’s, Linda tried to see them for lunch, and she told Aziraphale that he was doing very well.

Aziraphale had insisted they explore LA, so Crowley had acquired a car, which they would leave for Raguel, after. They’d driven around the horrid city quite a lot. Aziraphale had acquired himself a signed first edition of the Phantom Tollbooth and was now on the lookout for a second one, for Linda.

Crowley thought this was hilarious. He’d read it too, out of curiosity, and because it was easy. He’d gone a little gushy over Rhyme and Reason. 

Aziraphale was just perusing the collection of a rare book dealer that Crowley had found—somehow—when Crowley’s mobile rang.

Aziraphale didn’t really listen to the conversation. It really was a lovely collection. He skimmed his fingers fondly over a first edition _Dorian Gray. _He already had one, of course – Oscar had written a little note in the front cover to Aziraphale, himself. But it was nice to see.

“Hey, angel?” Crowley’s voice was soft and concerned. “Ah, we’re being summoned to Decker’s precinct. Apparently they found a weird body for us to look at.”

It took Aziraphale a moment to catch up. Asteroth’s monster. Right.

“Alright,” he sighed, and followed Crowley out of the store.

Crowley threw around enough miracles to launch a thousand ships, because there was no traffic whatsoever, and they were going well over the speed limit, too. Aziraphale didn’t really have it in him to be disapproving, too worried. What sort of body awaited them?

Lucifer was waiting for them in the car park, of course. Crowley pulled in with a squeal of tires - and he didn't park in one space, instead sprawling the car across two spaces, because he was a demon and therefore evil. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but Lucifer, standing just behind the car, had quirked an amused smile. Aziraphale could see him in the mirror. 

Beside him, Crowley slipped out of the car. 

“About time,” Lucifer told Crowley as Aziraphale opened his door. Lucifer looked the car up and down. “Very nice.”

“Not as good as the one at home,” Crowley said, “But thanks.” 

“Well, the one in London is frankly stunning,” Lucifer said, and Crowley preened. He strolled over to stand next to Lucifer, without an ounce of fear in him. They both regarded the vehicle. “Not bad, though.” Lucifer nodded to the car[1].

“I thought so,” Crowley said proudly. He looked back to Aziraphale. “Angel?”

“Coming.”

They followed Lucifer up into the poorly-designed precinct. It was very different during the day, and also very different when Aziraphale wasn’t frightened out of his mind. The place was bright and bustling with police officers. It almost seemed—pleasant, in a poorly-designed sort of way. 

The autopsy room was tucked away into a strange corner of the place, inconveniently far from the forensics room. Still, when Lucifer opened the door, a familiar face popped into view.

“Crowley?” asked Miss Lopez.

“Hey, Ella,” Crowley said, and then she lunged, throwing her arms around his neck with enough force that he staggered backwards. He laughed and patted her back awkwardly. “Good to see you, too,” he said. “It’s only been a few days.”

“You need to visit more!” she scolded. And then her eyes turned to Aziraphale. Her face lit with joy and she beamed at him.

“He missed you so much!” she said. “I know you had some stuff going on. Can I hug you?” Her dark eyes were huge and earnest.

Aziraphale chuckled. He braced himself. “Yes, of course.”

She rushed up to him, but she was gentle when she threw her arms around him. “Lucifer told me what happened,” she said, hugging him carefully. “I’ve been praying for you. To the Big Guy, you know.” 

Aziraphale hugged her back. “Oh, She can’t do anything about this, my dear Miss Lopez,” he said. “This was from beyond our world. But thank you.” He didn’t really know how to say _please don’t tell Gabriel. _

“God’s a woman?” Miss Lopez said, pulling back, all delight.

“He’s whatever He wants to be,” muttered Lucifer. And then, in a bizarre moment of compassion, he added, “And don’t tell Gabriel, Crowley says he’s been a prat to Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale grimaced and didn’t linger on that topic. “She’s always been a woman for me,” he said.

“I love that,” said Miss Lopez. “I don’t love that Gabriel hasn’t been nice to you? Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale really didn’t want to talk about it. He looked down.

“He’s a bully and a hack and Aziraphale doesn’t like talking about it,” Crowley said. “What do you have for us, Ella?” he added.

Ella frowned. “Come on, I’ll show you.” She led them back inside. "Normally I don't do autopsy rooms but this is where the body is, so. Jasper says we can have the room and the body for one hour provided we don't touch it."

Inside the autopsy room was a great long examination table. There was no doctor, as Miss Lopez promised, but Chloe Decker was standing there, reading a file. When they came in, she looked up and smiled.

“Hi,” she said. “Crowley, how are you feeling? I heard you gave Linda a scare the other day.”

Crowley waved a hand. “I’m perfectly fine, don’t worry about me. What’s—” and then he saw the table, a split second before Aziraphale did. His face went dead pale.

Oh, poor love, Aziraphale thought. He rushed up to stand next to Crowley, who deeply disliked the sight of blood.

Upon the table was a kind of—mush, like the remains of a picky child’s steak dinner. There was hair in there too, and fingernails, and things that looked half masticated, red and, more disturbingly, black. It was terrible to look at, really. 

“Hey,” said Chloe, who was a kind young lady and very observant, “Hey, you don’t have to stay, Crowley. I’m sorry, I’m kind of desensitized – I think we all are -- Ella can give you just the report if you want—”

Miss Lopez was nodding along enthusiastically. “Oh yeah, no problemo if you have to go, it is kind of, um, a lot—”

“S’fine,” Crowley said. He shook himself a little. It was rather upsetting to watch. Crowley was Hell’s field agent. He had encouraged all kinds of terrible acts. He knew how to endure a horrid sight like this and worse. It was false, and it would give him nightmares as soon as he relaxed, but he knew how. He hadn’t had to since he’d retired; Aziraphale had provided warmth and affection, instead of sin and pain and Crowley had stretched and luxuriated in it like a cat. It hurt to watch him fold up again. “What can you tell us?”

Miss Lopez nodded again. “So, the reason this body is weird, besides not being much of a body—is that it’s been eaten. Time of death was yesterday morning, and since then, it’s been gnawed on, fast. It takes rats or cats or dogs or racoons a long time to eat a body to this degree, and even then, it doesn’t look like this. It’s not—mush. It’s half decayed; there’s bacteria from the animals’ mouths. There’s definitely saliva in this, and tooth marks—blunt like a human’s, and some kind of necrosis going on. But the DNA is completely insane, guys. It’s not human. I tested it like five times, because it’s _crazy_. There’s either something really weird going on, or this is your monster.”

Crowley let out a breath. “Nightmare World,” he whispered.

“Nightmare World,” Aziraphale agreed, because it was indeed a world of nightmares. “I’ll write to Castiel, or Sam. They’ll know.”

Aziraphale knew that Crowley was always irritated when one of the Brothers Winchester replied instead of Castiel, but Aziraphale had rather a soft spot for Sam Winchester. Sam was a born researcher, and they’d once stayed up late in the night, writing letters furiously back and forth, debating on the nature of the monster. Aziraphale had been certain that all monsters could be persuaded to become more man than beast; Sam asserted that it was not impossible, but at the end of the day, it was a rare monster who could coexist. It had been positively delightful[2]. He wished he could make the poor boy cocoa, sometimes, when he received sad, bloodstained letters about the latest horrific battle, but of course he could not[3]. He still liked to think he provided a sympathetic ear, at least. Sam sounded terribly lonely. 

The letter wasn’t difficult to craft. It appeared, fully formed, in his hand, there in the autopsy room. In the bookshop, he would write them out with a fountain pen, as part of a sort of ritual, but here and now they needed answers quickly.

Ella’s eyes went huge. “Did you just—write that?”

“I did indeed. I’m going to send it over to Castiel, if you’ll give me a moment.” He smiled at her.

Eyes huge and curious, she nodded.

“Boreas,” Aziraphale called softly. “Vene mihi, si amabis me.”

Boreas uncurled in the far corner. The temperature in the room dropped, just a little. “Quod habes, angelus?” Its voice was not its voice; it was a thousand other voices, stolen by the wind. Fast moving cars, men standing unwisely in hurricanes, or on windy cliffsides—Boreas hoarded the voices of anyone who had ever had their words torn away.

Aziraphale hid his scowl. Next to him, Crowley made a face too. Lucifer, standing next to Chloe, snickered[4].

“Habeo nuntium,” Aziraphale told Boreas. “Feresne mihi?”

Boreas wriggled a little, and a breeze picked up in the room. It liked Aziraphale rather a lot, this Aziraphale knew; he didn’t have to entreat the way Crowley did. Of course, he also read to Boreas quite a lot. Perhaps Boreas would enjoy the Phantom Tollbooth?

“Feram,” Boreas said, eventually, and leaped from the ground. It snatched the letter from Aziraphale’s hand, and vanished.

“That,” said Ella, who could hear but not see Boreas, “was awesome! The North Wind, right? Boreas is the North Wind?”

“Yeah,” Crowley told her wryly. “That’s why it got so cold in here. Castiel usually sends back Zephyr, the West Wind.”

“North Wind because--?” Ella asked.

“Nightmare World is colder than this one,” Crowley said. “Zephyr likes it here better. We’re a West Wind kind of place.”

“Apparently Nightmare World has a bunch of monsters, and the angels there are really scary, besides Castiel,” Chloe told Ella.

“Oh, Castiel’s scary too, don’t worry,” Crowley said dryly. “He swallowed Purgatory once, apparently. I don’t even know how he did that. Don’t worry, he gave it back,” he told a horrified Lucifer wryly. “I don’t know if he threw it up or what, and I really don’t want to know. That place is horrible.”

“Lives up to its name, then,” Miss Lopez said faintly. “What are we called?”

“Apparently they call us Daydream World,” Aziraphale said dryly.

“Ooooo I like that,” Miss Lopez beamed. “Can we send them pictures? Of the body, I mean? Or case files? How much can Boreas carry?”

That… was not a bad idea. Pictures had never occurred to Aziraphale. Human ingenuity was a marvelous thing.

Miss Lopez made copies of the case file, including the forensic pictures, and Aziraphale called up Boreas again, as Boreas wasn’t really bound by space and time. He sent it over, laden down with evidence.

Castiel got back to him quickly, after that second one, though his letter was mostly delight and not very helpful.

_Dear Aziraphale and Crowley, _

_It had not occurred to me to send pictures! My hunters are researching. We will get back to you shortly._

_All the best, _

_Castiel _

Attached to the letter was a picture, printed on the wrong kind of paper: two grown men in flannels, one with very floppy hair, pouring over a small table filled with books in a lovely-looking library.

“We’re sending them pictures back!” Miss Lopez cried. “Oh my god, please!”

“My dear, they have to concentrate!” Aziraphale scolded, amused.

“Please, please, please?” she said. “It’s like having a pen pal! I want to say hi!”

Lucifer chuckled. “One group photo won’t hurt, will it?”

“Uh, yeah it will,” Crowley said, “Because we never told them about you, boss. They’ll freak out. The Lucifer in their world is a serious psychopath.”

Lucifer actually looked a little hurt. He swallowed, but Miss Lopez spoke before he could.

Her face fell. “Really?”

“I’m afraid so,” Aziraphale said, soft. “He’s done terrible things, the other Lucifer, to Sam in particular.”

“What things?” Lucifer asked.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a glance.

“You really don’t want to know,” Crowley said. “Their apocalypse was—vicious. And they have that vessel thing, right? Where you have to possess people and apparently it got really bad. But it has nothing to do with you,” Crowley added earnestly. He even walked over to Lucifer and tugged on the sleeve of his blazer for emphasis. “You just, you know, have a terrible twin over there.”

Lucifer’s face had gone dark and surprisingly self-loathing. He looked down into Crowley’s sunglasses, morose and intense. “He is me,” he said. “A version of me who never broke free of that cage. I have that capacity.”

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale said, abruptly losing patience with the self-pity. Crowley didn’t struggle with his demonhood[5] —why on earth should Lucifer? “I have the capacity to level this city. I choose not to. That’s what matters.” He lifted his chin. He had been fighting that urge, as hard as he could, for nearly a year. He was not going to start throwing a wobbly because he _had the capacity, _that was patently ridiculous.

Lucifer blinked at him, thrown.

“He has a point,” Chloe told him. “Everyone can do terrible things.” She took his hand and smiled. “That doesn’t mean they do. Right?”

He smiled at her, hesitant. His shoulders dropped, slowly. “I suppose,” he said.

“Of course you do, silly!” Miss Lopez cried. “You’re not a psychopath! You literally help the police solve murders, Lucifer. You do good things _all the time_.” She beamed at him.

Crowley shrugged at him. “Free will, yeah?”

Lucifer huffed. “Free will,” he agreed. “And that—apple thing.”

Crowley, Serpent of Eden, gave him a very, very smug smile. “Better humans than Gabriel, I always say,” he murmured. “But then, most things are. Gabriel is a prick.”

“Really, my dear,” murmured Aziraphale, but a warm breeze picked up in the autopsy room, ruffling the papers.

Zephyr and its many wings soared up to Aziraphale. It deposited the letter in his hands.

“That was fast,” said Chloe.

“I bet the pictures helped,” Miss Lopez said, bouncing. “Open it, open it!”

______

[1] It was a Bentley, naturally. Not 1926, so not as good, but 1973 T-series was doable. Black, of course.

[2] Sam had enjoyed it too. The debate was one he’d had with himself and even with Dean, more than once, but it was nice to hear an outsider’s perspective, in a manner that was more theoretical than threatening. This was not something to discuss while hunting, which he’d learned the hard way, but safe in the library of the Men of Letters, like twelve books scattered around him, was the perfect place for an intellectual debate. Aziraphale was clever, and well-read and a wonderful writer, and he had a deep understanding of human nature, though not necessarily of monster-nature. He was an excellent debater. Sam hadn’t had an intellectual debate like that in years; it was great. Castiel had caught him doing it and smiled, charmed that his friends were getting along.

[3] He had, however, sent over very small packets of high-quality cocoa mix. Boreas didn’t like to carry them, so he didn’t do it often, and he didn’t send very much. Sam hoarded these like they were gold, and never told Dean about them. Castiel, who recognized the smell whenever Sam made them, was deeply jealous.

[4] He’d debated calling Aziraphale ‘angel,’ because he was one and to see the bit-into-a-lemon look on Crowley’s face, but it felt—wrong. Also, he didn’t want to risk Crowley calling Chloe ‘Luv,’ because that was the kind of thing the bastard would do, just to mess with him. He thought about calling Amenadiel ‘angel’ in front of them, to see what they would do, but while it had a certain appeal, he didn’t need to remind Amenadiel of what he was, and what Lucifer was not, the smug bastard. How those two had ever in a million years made that work was still a total mystery. 

[5] Crowley did, in fact, torture himself over being a demon quite a bit. All that nonsense about sauntering and all that; he made excuses. Truth was, Falling hurt, and it never healed and it never went away, and his job for years had been to damn people, and to hurt them. He just didn’t say much about it to Aziraphale, because that would be pointless. He didn’t want or need _redemption _of any sort. He loved Aziraphale, but there were some things he wouldn't understand, just as Crowley was sure there were angel-things he wouldn't understand, either. It was alright. At the end of the day, Crowley’d decided that he was a different sort of demon than Hastur and the rest. He was an _earthbound_ demon, and anyway Lucifer himself had set him free. That made him different, and it made him his own man(-shaped being), and it put to rest a lot of long standing self-loathing.


	9. Chapter 9

_Aziraphale,_

_This is Sam. I suspect that the monster is a ghoul, from what you’ve told us. The good news about ghouls is this: generally speaking, they only eat the dead. The bad news is that sometimes, they go rogue and eat the living, too. Have any bodies from the morgue gone missing? Grave robberies?_

_Ghouls can change their shape: they take the form of anyone they have eaten, alive or dead. They can also have “favorite” bodies, so don’t think that they’ll necessarily be in the shape of your John Doe. They do, however, leave fingerprints – at least the fingerprints from the bodies they’re wearing, so you can track them that way. And you can kill them by decapitation or otherwise destroying their head._

_Ghouls are strong and fast, so be careful. They like to hide in sewers and tombs and things like ventilation systems, too. Cas says that you have an angel blade, or whatever the equivalent is in your world—use it. Don’t go head-to-head with these guys without a weapon, okay? Even if it’s only going after the dead, kill it, Aziraphale. It’ll find a way to multiply. It’s an invasive species. _

_Good luck, _

_Sam_

Castiel had added a post-script: _Stay safe, Aziraphale, and good luck. I am terribly sorry that you have to deal with yet more monsters from our world. I have been remiss and have not informed you of all that is happening here, because it is frankly grisly, and I felt I was protecting you. In short: we have encountered another alternate world, and it is not nearly as kind as yours. Please, for your own safety, you must close these holes. If there is anything we can do to help from our end, let us know. -Castiel_

That did not sound good at all. Another alternate world? Aziraphale frowned down at the letter, already formulating a concerned reply to Castiel in his mind.

Attached to the letter was a little picture of the floppy-haired young man, smiling like he was worried, and Castiel’s familiar, serious face. They both looked incredibly tired, but it was nice to finally put a face to Sam’s name.

“Oh, he’s cute!” cooed Miss Lopez, peering over his shoulder and effectively distracting Aziraphale. “Which one’s Sam?”

“Is he?” Aziraphale asked. He ran a thumb over the picture. It was good to see Castiel again, if only in an image; he looked terribly unkempt, though that was unsurprising. It was nice to have a face for Sam at last, though. “This one is Sam.”

Miss Lopez cooed, delighted. “I thought so!”

Crowley huffed. “Lotta work, that one, Ella,” he said dryly. “Sam spent a good long while in the other Lucifer’s cage.” 

“What?” Lucifer blurted, aghast.

“It was how they stopped their apocalypse. I told you it was messy. Can I see?”

Aziraphale passed him the letter and the pictures. “Sam says it’s a ghoul, that it feeds mostly off the dead, and sometimes off the living,” Aziraphale told the others while Crowley clucked over Castiel’s image. His hair did look a mess; he likely wasn’t taking proper care of himself again, and it was upsetting to see the same haunted look in his eyes as when he had first arrived on their doorstep. By the end of his stay in Aziraphale's bookshop, Castiel’s eyes had cleared and brightened. That terrible Nightmare World, Aziraphale thought unhappily. 

“Humans don’t belong in that cage,” Lucifer fretted, mostly ignoring him. “No one belongs in that cage. That cage is horrid. Anyone would go mad in there.”

“A cage?” asked Miss Lopez softly, “You were in a cage?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Chloe said, with a glance to Lucifer. He nodded, what looked like permission[1].

“Kinda think going mad’s the point,” Crowley was saying, distracted. He finished the letter and looked up. “We’re going after this thing?” he asked Aziraphale[2].

Aziraphale nodded.

“Are you up for that?” Crowley asked, very seriously.

“Are you?” Aziraphale returned. “You had that strange episode, my dear—”

Crowley waved him off. “Listen,” he said. “You go waving that pigsticker of yours around, you might forget. I mean it, angel, _are you up for this?_”

Aziraphale sat back on his heels. He thought about it. He thought about his flaming sword, which had turned up on his doorstep like a lost puppy after the apocalypse. Ineffable, he’d said, and taken it inside, a little distastefully. He’d never liked the thing, but he had cleaned it, because that was what you did, when you were a soldier. He’d summoned it and banished it a handful of times since then. Mostly it sat in a drawer in his desk. He was hardly going to dignify such a thing by purchasing a _scabbard_.

As a Cherub, he’d had a scabbard. It had strapped over one shoulder and the sword had sat between his four wings. It pinched and it pulled on his feathers. He hadn’t known he’d hated it until he’d stopped wearing it. Angels didn’t scar, precisely, but a few of the little feathers by his right shoulder tended to be ingrown or crooked, because he’d worn it as his feathers came in, as an eyas, so long ago. Crowley usually clucked at them, but no matter how he caressed them, the feathers never quite laid straight. Blasted scabbard.

No. The sword itself was not a trigger, or at least, not anymore.

Wielding the sword?

Harder. He hadn’t done that since—well, the Leviathan. Protecting Crowley; that had been the most satisfying blow he’d dealt with the weapon in eons.

The thought of wielding the blade was in association with protecting his demon. He remembered flying with it, high above the Silver City, but those memories were far less pleasant, and less immediate. 

He looked back at Crowley and shrugged. “I’ll be fine,” he said.

“You’re sure?” he fretted.

Aziraphale walked over and took his hand. “Yes, my dear.”

Crowley took an unnecessary breath. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. Then he looked back at Lucifer. “What’s the plan, boss?” he asked. He twined his fingers through Aziraphale’s.

Such a silly question, and a silly nickname. Aziraphale looked at Detective Decker and smiled. She was the one who was truly in charge; Lucifer would defer to her, and that was how it should be. The humans always knew best.

Chloe smiled back at him. She seemed to get the silent joke, that Crowley might call Lucifer ‘boss,’ but it was in fact she who was in charge, if the wicked curl to her lip was anything to go by. Oh, but Aziraphale did like her; she was such a lovely young woman. Her eyes twinkled, and she answered instead of Lucifer.

“We just wrapped up our last case,” Chloe said. “It’s a bit soon to start something new, but I think this is urgent. If these—ghouls eat both the living and the dead, we have to be sure we know what killed our John Doe—did the ghoul do it, or was it scavenging? So we know whether to treat it like a murder or like a grave robbery.”

“So it—comes from the other world,” Miss Lopez said slowly. “Nightmare World. How did it get here?”

Lucifer scowled. “Holes,” he said, a little shortly. “There are holes.”

“That sounds bad,” Miss Lopez said.

“It’s pretty bad,” Crowley said. “There was this crazy angel—” he looked at Aziraphale anxiously, but Aziraphale didn’t mind the discussion. He shrugged, and Crowley continued, “It tore a bunch of holes in Hell. The demon Asteroth fell through one; he brought this thing back, when he came home.”

“Are you, I mean, can it be fixed?” Miss Lopez asked. “The holes.”

“Yes, but I needed bloody Asteroth to do it and now he’s—” Lucifer clenched his jaw.

“Dust in the wind?” Crowley drawled.

“Crowley!” snapped Aziraphale.

But Lucifer snorted, apparently not offended. “This _is_ the sort of creature Asteroth would find endearing,” muttered Lucifer after a moment, but he sounded sad. Seven thousand years was a very long time for a companion, even a poor companion, after all. Aziraphale’s squeezed Crowley’s hand, disliking the idea of losing him in a burst of Raguel’s fire.

Chloe went up to Lucifer and, despite onlookers, took his hand and hummed. It was a shockingly good impression of an angel’s thrum, and Aziraphale did a bit of a double take. She got better and better at that every time he saw her, and he was rather under the impression that she understood the nuances of what it could mean a little more each time. Comforting a grieving loved one was spot on.

Lucifer smiled down at her. Love nearly radiated from him as he gazed at her. “He had a morbid sense of humor and quite liked to muck up procedure,” he said.

At Aziraphale’s side, Crowley laughed abruptly. “Yeah, he did! I never thought of it like that! Dagon used to go quiet for like, decades and I always wondered why til bloody Abraxas himself told me that Dagon’s seal kept going missing. I think they figured out it was Asteroth in the twelfth century?”

Lucifer chortled. “I remember that. Abraxas was quite angry.”

“So was Dagon!” Crowley smiled at him. “He couldn’t say anything, of course, just gave me impossible orders to blow off steam. Did Asteroth ever tell you why he did it? Dagon was small fries, in comparison.”

“Oh, it was because of one of Dagon’s secretaries, as I recall,” Lucifer said, exasperated. “An imp, I think. Azazel gave Dagon orders to put her back into the Sixth Circle for—some idiot reason, I can’t remember. But Asteroth was angry at Azazel for throwing one of his staffs – you know how he used to carry around a staff – into the Lake of Fire, so he took the seal to be sure Azazel’s orders were never followed but he made it look like it was Dagon, which was embarrassing for Abraxas and round it goes. You know Hell’s politics.” Lucifer rolled his eyes.

Crowley snorted. “Sounds like Hell,” he said.

“That’s terrible,” said Chloe.

“Oh, it’s always like that,” Lucifer told her wryly. “Why do you think I left, darling?” He sighed. “Might run smoother, without him.”

“Nah,” Crowley broke in, cajoling. “Nothing can fix Hell, Boss.”

Lucifer looked down at the floor, with a wry smile. “No. Look into this ghoul, Crowley,” he added. “The detective and I will take it from the murder side.” He glanced up at Chloe, seeking approval.

“It’s not a bad idea. Ella, do you have cause of death?”

Miss Lopez shook her head. “No. The chewing is post-mortem, but any sort of monster or whatever could have killed first, then munched. This thing’s saliva is really messing with my tests, though, I haven’t been able to get any kind of match on anything. Just to clarify: are there going to be more of these things? While the—the holes are open? Because, I mean, forensically speaking this is kind of a nightmare—”

“Can I help?” Crowley dropped Aziraphale’s hand and didn’t answer her question. A glance to Lucifer’s clenched jaw told Aziraphale that further talk of holes in the universe might be unwise, for though Lucifer would never harm Miss Lope, he still might—er—blow a switch, or a wire—some electrical part, as the saying went[3].

“Sometimes I can—smell stuff.”

Aziraphale sighed. Poor brave Crowley really did hate the sight of blood and bodies, but he watched his demon stroll up to this one and, with a brief hesitation wherein Aziraphale was certain he glanced around the room behind his sunglasses, he flicked his tongue. He grimaced.

“Oh, you’re a _snake_!” beamed Miss Lopez. “You can taste stuff that is _so cool_ Crowley!”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “You are the first person to think so.”

“Can you smell anything, dear?” Aziraphale asked.

“Fire,” said Crowley softly. “Bad fire, like burning hair. That smell before a thunderstorm. I think that’s Nightmare World, hang on.” He flicked his tongue again. “Ah--human that’s been dead for a while and like, decay, bad breath, something else—that’s our monster I think; it’s _foul_—” Once more. “Annnd—something very familiar but I can’t place it, I’m sorry.” He leaned back and smacked his tongue, like he had a bad taste in his mouth.

“That was so cool,” Miss Lopez said. “Can you tell if it’s male or female? I can’t even get any DNA; the saliva is seriously screwing me up.”

“Male,” Crowley said. “Early twenties. It’s all—mucky otherwise but that I can tell you.”

“Last meal?” Miss Lopez asked.

Crowley grimaced. He flicked his tongue again. And then again. There was a groove forming on his forehead that Aziraphale didn’t like.

“Something fried,” Crowley muttered. “Potatoes. French fries? And—sugar. Candy? Lots of sugar.”

“Alcohol?” Miss Lopez asked.

“Yes,” Crowley said. “Beer. Cheap beer. The kind that comes in a can. I can taste the aluminum.” He coughed a little and pulled back.

“That’s incredible,” Miss Lopez said. “But y’know they do say snakes have some of the best senses of smell, and you’re a _celestial_ snake so like… wow.” She beamed at Crowley, who smiled back at her weakly. Aziraphale could tell he was flattered, and not a little relieved. He didn’t like showing his serpentine side to humans, because it tended to make them uncomfortable. Miss Lopez was lovely, really.

“Cheap beer, French fries and candy, early twenties…” Chloe murmured. “Crowley, very early twenties? Closer to teen?”

Crowley nodded.

“Student,” Miss Lopez blurted. “Bet you anything he was a student, but can’t speculate yet.”

“Well, that’s something,” Chloe said. “Good job. Thank you, Crowley,” she said, sincere enough that Crowley looked down again and shrugged.

“Heeey,” Miss Lopez said. “If we get more of these things this’ll be helpful. I’ve got another body for another case, by the way, if you want to take a sniff, Crowley?”

Absolutely not. Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand. “I’m afraid we have to get going, my dear,” he said. “We have a ghoul to find.”

“And I need to eat something,” muttered Crowley. He smacked his lips again, unhappy.

“Oh, yeah! Of course! Go catch that ghoul!” Miss Lopez said cheerfully.

Crowley shared a look with Lucifer that must have meant something to them but didn’t mean a thing to Aziraphale.

“Keep us posted,” Chloe told him. “We’ll be looking for John Doe’s murderer. We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

Aziraphale nodded. “We shall. Come along, Crowley. We’ll see you all later.”

“Bye!” cried Miss Lopez, and the door closed behind them.

Aziraphale pulled an unprotesting Crowley back to the car park, and back to the car. He offered him a tiny, single serving size bottle of vodka, the cheap kind. Crowley seized it.

“Thank you,” he gasped, and downed it, swishing it around his mouth like Listerine.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

They were standing alone in the car park, beside the car. Crowley looked around, but when no one appeared, he slipped into Aziraphale’s arms like he belonged there, which of course he did. He put his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I hate doing that,” he muttered.

I know, Aziraphale didn’t say. Crowley would have been able to smell the poor fellow’s fear before he died, and that, Aziraphale knew, was what really got to him, what he really hated. The fear, and pain and the filth, and the death. Azrael left her mark, and Crowley could smell it. It was frightening.

Aziraphale held him close, and ran a hand slowly down his spine, and then back up again, until Crowley sighed and relaxed. He nosed at Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I can probably track this thing down by scent,” Crowley murmured.

“Let’s pick up Watchdog first,” Aziraphale told him, resting his cheek against his temple. “She’s no tracker, but you must admit, dear boy, in terms of taking down a foe, she is far more competent than either of us.”

Crowley laughed against his shoulder. “Yeah. Good plan.”

He inhaled deeply against Aziraphale once more and flicked his tongue, tasting.

“I don’t smell like anything,” Aziraphale told him.

“Old books. Sweet things. Home.” Crowley pulled back and smiled at him. Aziraphale stroked his cheek with the backs of two fingers and Crowley leaned into the touch. He was a good love.

“Come on,” Aziraphale murmured, and they got in the car[4].

_____________

[1] He didn’t particularly like talking about it. The fact that Chloe could talk about it for him was a kindness that almost floored him. 

[2] Alternate worlds. ALTERNATE WORLDS?? An alternate world that was somehow _WORSE THAN NIGHTMARE WORLD_? What new horrid thing had that bloody place unleashed on poor Castiel? They needed to close those holes, seriously. Preferably with Castiel and his boys on _this_ side of things. Crowley was Not Okay with that postscript _at all_.

[3] Gasket. The word Aziraphale wanted was gasket. Or _fuse_. But he still didn’t really understand electricity, or, frankly, idioms, at all.

[4] The author would like to note that one single-serving of cheap vodka is not nearly enough to get a demon like Crowley even remotely drunk, especially when he wants to be sober. That was like nibbling on a chocolate liqueur, if chocolate liqueur could burn away all those deeply horrid scents from the palette. Mortal humans should not drink and drive.


	10. Chapter 10

The rest of the day and the night was spent in the car.

Crowley caught the scent in a back alley, and he had Watchdog sniff for it, too. She wasn’t much of a tracker, besides a few parlor tricks[1], but two noses were better than one. They drove about the city, windows down, looking for this ghoul, but no ghoul appeared.

Crowley drove them to a beach to watch the sunrise at the end of the long, fruitless night, because “We deserve a bloody break, angel!”

Watchdog raced to frolic in the dark waves as the horizon turned pink, and Aziraphale had sat himself on a hastily miracled sheet, leaning against Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s hair, and he thrummed softly as the pink sky brightened. It was all very lovely, really, until the deep bass sounds from Crowley’s throat cut off abruptly, instead of tapering into contented silence.

His demon had gone rigid.

Aziraphale pulled back. “Crowley?” he asked.

Crowley didn’t move.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale whispered. He shuffled around to sit in front of Crowley. Carefully, gently, because he knew Crowley didn't like it, he took off the sunglasses to find those golden eyes, pupils so small they were barely even there. “Crowley, love, you said you were alright,” Aziraphale said wretchedly. He pushed an errant lock of dark hair back from Crowley’s forehead. “Crowley? Crowley, come back. Please come back.” He tapped his cheek a little, loath to truly slap him.

Absence seizures, he thought, trying to control the rising panic. That was what Linda had called them.

Linda! Of course! He had—he had a doctor on call.

That irritating flip phone appeared in his hand. He called Linda, without dialing because there was no time for that nonsense. It rang and rang, and Aziraphale had no patience for this, not when Crowley was staring at the horizon and the frankly lovely sunrise without seeing it; he bloody well miracled her awake and he wasn’t supposed to infringe upon free well but he bloody well did; Adam be damned, he told her, **_ANSWER THE PHONE. _**

“What—” she gasped, shocked, over the phone. “What just—”

“He’s having another one,” Aziraphale told her urgently. “What do I do? Tell me what to do, please dear lady, please—”

“You just—what did you do to me—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I made you answer the phone, I am truly sorry, but I don’t know what to do, he won’t respond, Dr. Martin _please_!”

“You can _do_ that?”

“It’s against the rules, _please_!” Aziraphale choked, looking at his demon, who stared and stared at nothing. Behind him, he heard Watchdog on the sand, galloping to meet them, llama in her mouth. She was huffing with panic and she got sand on the sheet. She entirely ignored Aziraphale, sniffing and sniffing at Crowley, distressed.

Whimpering, she dropped her toy and licked the side of Crowley’s face. No response. She sniffed him again, top to bottom, like she was hunting for a scent. 

“Against the rules,” Linda parroted. “They never do this because it’s against the rules. You broke the rules.” A beat. “You broke the rules because you’re frightened. Aziraphale, that is not okay.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m frightened, but please, Linda, please—”

“You can’t do anything for an absence seizure,” Linda told him flatly. “Wait it out. He’ll be fine. He was fine before. Do not ever do that to me again, do you understand?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He put his forehead against Crowley’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said.

“Stay with him,” Linda said. “Call me when he snaps out of it. Call me the normal way. I will pick up.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said again, ashamed. 

“Alright. Alright.” He heard her suck in a breath. “It’s going to take me a while,” she said. “To accept your apology.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Call me when he stops,” she said and hung up.

Aziraphale swallowed and looked at the phone. He’d definitely buggered that one up. He liked Linda quite a bit; that budding friendship appeared rather ruined, and it felt terrible. Lucifer was going to be furious, too, as were Amenadiel and Mazikeen. Linda Martin was well loved, amongst Angel Network, and rightly so. 

It didn’t matter.

He pulled an unresponsive Crowley close. Watchdog whined and whined. She nipped at Crowley’s hands, barked at him. He still didn’t wake. She sniffed him all over, panicky. Finally she collapsed down, scooped up her llama and rested her head against Crowley’s left leg, crying. Aziraphale hugged him and stroked Watch'e's soft ears. He watched the sunrise, fear sitting like a stone in his throat. All the healing miracles in the world didn’t help, but he still tried. This was something metaphysical, it had to be. Linda couldn’t help with that, anyway, he thought morosely, looking directly into the sun. It was a foolish hope.

Slowly, Crowley went cold. His skin turned pale. Watchdog pulled back with a whine.

He blinked.

“W-who turned down the thermostat,” Crowley said, and shuddered. “Angel? S’freezing.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, and pulled him close. “Crowley, you had another one, how do you feel, are you okay—”

“Cold,” Crowley complained, and he shifted over and dived into Aziraphale’s jumper, a snake. Watchdog barked and barked, stiff-legged and afraid.

Steady as the tide, Aziraphale called Linda back. Watchdog came over and sniffed at Crowley, in Aziraphale's jumper. She seemed confused. 

“Aziraphale,” she said.

“He’s awake,” Aziraphale said. “And a serpent. He’s freezing and falling into—” he looked down at the lump in his sweater. Its breath was long and even, and if snakes could snore, he’d be snoring. “—lethargy.”

Linda took a breath. “He did that before,” she said. “You’re certain you can’t take him to a hospital, Aziraphale?”

“He’s a demon,” Aziraphale said softly. “And at the moment, a snake. I think that would go rather poorly.”

“Alright. Alright.” She took yet another breath. “Do what you did before. Keep him warm. And Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“I should tell Lucifer,” she said.

“I know,” said Aziraphale.

“Or Amenadiel,” Linda added, now angry.

“You should,” Aziraphale agreed softly, resigned.

“I’m not going to,” said Linda. “Because I know both of them would harm you. So I’m going to keep this quiet and call it a mistake, on the condition that you never do that again, and that you come in to see me, at least twice. We need to talk about this. If you try anything like that again, I will go straight to Lucifer, do you understand?”

That was far, far kinder than Aziraphale deserved. Amenadiel had been entirely correct about Linda. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I will certainly come in.” He hesitated. “The truth of the matter is that I answer to neither of them. They would indeed hurt me, or rather they would try, but I am under the protection of another. The being you should tell—to whom I will confess—is Adam Young.”

“That’s on you, then,” said Linda. “Who is Adam Young?”

“The Antichrist,” said Aziraphale. “He and Lucifer disowned each other, many years ago.”

There was a sort of shocked silence. “Yes, of course. You told me about him. The Antichrist,” Linda parroted, toneless.

“He’s a lovely boy,” Aziraphale told her earnestly. “He is the one who stopped the apocalypse, in truth. It was thirty years ago, you understand.”

“And he’s—protecting you.”

“Yes. That rule is his rule.”

“Will he hurt you, Aziraphale?”

“Likely not. He’ll be very angry, though.”

A short pause.

“Good. I’m very angry, too. But I don’t want anyone to hurt you.”

“You are very kind, Linda Martin,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Not really,” Linda said. “I’m petty and savage and human. I still want you to come in so we can discuss this. Manipulation shouldn’t be a reflex for when you’re scared, Aziraphale[2].”

Aziraphale put a hand on the cold snake on his shoulder. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

Watchdog whimpered again. Slowly, after he hung up, she snuck onto Aziraphale’s lap, huge hulking body and tentatively thumping tail. She did not fit very well. He scratched her pointed ears and watched the light of the risen sun in the waves. He didn’t miracle away the sand. He felt extremely guilty.

He called Adam. He confessed, because he was an angel, and confession was important. He’d left things out for years in his reports to Heaven, but that was because Gabriel was a little, er, overzealous, and had never understood Earth, or frankly Aziraphale. Aziraphale loved Him Above, the Lady God, of course, but he loved Adam, too. He’d defected, after all. Adam was where his loyalties lay now, and like any convert, he believed quite strongly[3].

Adam was very angry.

“I don’t know what to say to you,” Adam growled, as well as an eleven-year-old could growl. “That was the worst thing you possibly could’ve done. But there’s no punishment, Aziraphale. If you hurt people I haveta make you leave. I don’t want to make you leave, so don’t hurt people, okay? I know you were scared. Don’t do it again. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“And don’t let my devil-dad find out,” Adam added. “He’ll try to hurt you, and I don’t want to have to stop him.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Where’s Crowley?”

“Still a snake,” Aziraphale said dully. “He’s on my shoulder, asleep. He’s cold as ice.”

“Hmm,” Adam said. “Well, he’ll wake up,” he said with certainty. “It’s gonna be okay, Aziraphale. No more messin’ about, alright?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said again. The world had gone a little fuzzy. There was a cold snake on his shoulder, and a, a mobile phone in his hand and he was not in the Silver City, he was on a beach in Los Angeles and he couldn’t do this now, he was speaking to Adam, and, and Crowley was ill, there was no Crowley to call him back—

The panic came and went in a flash. He could call himself back. The Silver City faded from his mind’s eye. _He was on a beach in LA. _He’d broken the rules and he was wretchedly worried.

Adam Young. Oscar Wilde. William Shakespeare. Three things, and none of them were Crowley. Charles Dickens, that was another, and so was Julius Caesar. He was a Principality, he was under a great deal of stress, and he was on the phone with Adam Young. Cherubs had no place here, he thought angrily.

“Aziraphale?” asked Adam. “You okay?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, more certain now. “Yes, I’m alright.”

_______

[1] Such as finding her masters. She was a guard dog, after all. She needed to be able to find them, if one got lost. Aziraphale imagined she could also find Lucifer in a pinch, for he had also been her master, once. But that was more _sensing_ than tracking by scent.

[2] Three years ago, Linda would have run screaming. Her hands were still shaking. That was awesome power Aziraphale had displayed, incredible and merciless and utterly commanding. There was no resisting power like that, and it was deeply terrifying. She ought to run.

But Lucifer Morningstar himself sat on her couch, twice a week, with his dark brown eyes and his nervous laughter and his deep running daddy issues, and he was nothing to be afraid of. Amenadiel, the Eldest and strongest angel—apparently—was gentle and kind, and he could stop time itself. He never hurt her. Mazikeen liked her knives but she was almost absurdly attentive, and a wonderful, genuine friend. Linda loved her celestials. And she liked Aziraphale, really, and she saw how Crowley adored him, how they adored each other.

Lucifer had frightened her with his face, once. She had learned to look past that. Aziraphale had terrified her, but he hadn’t hurt her. He deserved a second chance, too. And part of that was finding out where this behavior came from, and teaching Aziraphale to stop it, before he hurt someone dammit. 

[3] He’d lied to the Lady God, once. He hadn’t yet lied to Adam and he did not plan to.


	11. Chapter 11

Crowley took a long time to wake this time, long enough for Aziraphale to fly him and Watchdog back to the precinct. It was nine in the morning at that point, and Lucifer was leaning on his detective’s desk, dangling a cup of iced coffee playfully out of her reach.

“Lucifer,” she was laughing.

“No, you have to say it!” he grinned. “Say I’m right!”

“Lucifer, you are _not_ right! Give me that!” She made a grab for it and missed.

“Ah-ah, detective! Not until you admit—”

“Aziraphale!” said the detective brightly. She sat back in her seat and smiled at him. “What are you doing here? Any luck?”

“Where’s Crowley?” Lucifer demanded. His eyes darted behind Aziraphale, and he looked honestly concerned, which was oddly kind of him. Aziraphale felt absolutely wretched. Watchdog slunk at his heels, holding her llama in her jaws tightly. She was not quite whimpering, but she was close to it. She stuck close to Aziraphale's side and didn’t bound off to explore.

“No luck,” Aziraphale told the detective. “And Crowley had another—episode. Your therapist thinks they’re seizures. Would you have a look at him?” He gazed at Lucifer imploringly.

Lucifer set down the coffee. “Of course,” he said, now serious. “Where is he?”

Carefully, Aziraphale pulled the drowsing serpent out of his shirt. Crowley was such a little snake, really, he thought fretfully. He coiled him up on Chloe’s desk, still lukewarm, not temperate enough to truly wake.

“What—_is_ this?” Chloe asked. Gently, she stroked Crowley’s little, jewel-colored nose. He didn’t respond.

“He goes still,” Aziraphale said. “And he stares. And then he wakes and gets cold. He transforms and falls into lethargy.” Watchdog made a little circle and laid at his feet with a sigh.

“Very strange,” Lucifer murmured. “This is recent?”

“Only since we’ve got to LA,” Aziraphale fretted. _And I’ve hurt one of your humans terribly for it, _he didn’t say.

“I’ve never seen anything like that in a demon, frankly,” Lucifer said with a frown. “Though admittedly since Pestilence retired, the corporation upgrades have been a little shoddy. Immune to nuclear reactors, yes, but I spent half a day last year with the common cold.” He scowled.

“I understood about half of that sentence,” the detective said dryly.

“Trust me, you're not missing much. It’s just politics, darling,” Lucifer told her. “The bottom line is that he should not be experiencing human disease.” He frowned down at Crowley. “I—can call up Marbas,” he said slowly. “It’s a healer, as far as demons go. It won’t charge a favor, since it’s me calling.”

Aziraphale didn’t know very many demons, besides Crowley. “Who—who is Marbas?”

“A Greater Demon,” Lucifer said, and he looked right into Aziraphale’s eyes, serious as he so rarely was. “It’s a Viceroy. Its specialties include healing, and it’s a mechanic. I mostly have it working on the Circles, you understand. It repairs the gears when things stop moving.”

Aziraphale rested a hand over Crowley gently, trying to warm him. “Does that happen often?” he asked, shocked.

Heaven, of course, had nine spheres, and they moved within and around each other. Him Above had Created them that way. As Crowley explained it, Hell had circles, and they too moved, in a similar fashion to the spheres. The idea of the spheres not moving was—catastrophic.

“All the bloody time,” Lucifer scowled. “I didn’t get enough engineers, at the Start. We make do. But I will call Marbas for him.” He nodded to Crowley. “This is very disturbing, Aziraphale.”

A doctor. A doctor who understood demons. Aziraphale was nodding when Crowley finally, finally stirred under his hand.

“Whass,” Crowley murmured. “Whassa day? ‘Zir’phale?” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale lifted his hand and scooped his little snake up. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I ssssslept through the nineteenth century again,” Crowley mumbled. “What day is it?”

“It’s Thursday, dear heart, we’re still in LA,” Aziraphale murmured. “You had another episode.” He hugged him close. “Look, Watchdog!”

Watchie lifted her head from her paws, pricked her ears forward. She shot to her feet and sniffed Crowley, wagging her tail and huffing excitedly around her llama.

“Yess, hello,” Crowley told her, and she dropped to her elbows, tail in the air, a playful pose. She chewed on her llama so it squeaked. Then she jumped up, chased her tail, and fell back to her elbows, vibrating with excitement.

“Ohmigosh, is that Watchdog?”

Miss Lopez came rushing down a flight of stairs, another of Lucifer’s humans—Daniel—on her heels. She darted through the cubicles until she got close enough to speak without shouting.

“Uh, I don’t think dogs are allowed in here unless they’re K9s,” said Daniel, close behind her.

“She’s a service dog, Daniel,” Lucifer said smoothly, and it wasn’t—quite—a lie, though it wasn’t quite the truth, either.

“She’s not wearing a vest,” Daniel said.

“She’s mine,” Aziraphale said. “My—er—service dog, I mean.”

“Is that a snake?” Daniel blurted.

“OH MY GOD,” gasped Miss Lopez. “Is that who I think it is?” She bounced. Aziraphale held Crowley close to his chest, a little protective.

“Yes, but he’s not feeling his best, I’m afraid,” he said, and he knew it was true because Crowley almost actually responded in front of Daniel, a human who didn’t know. He touched a finger to his snout, hushing him.

“Oh, no, what happened?” Miss Lopez asked, crestfallen.

“We don’t know,” Chloe told her. “We’re thinking we’re going to—um—get him a vet.” She gave Lucifer a significant look.

Crowley’s eyes darted, alarmed, to Aziraphale’s face. For a snake he was really very expressive. _A VET???? _

“I didn’t know you kept snakes, Aziraphale,” Daniel said, skeptical. “What’s his name?”

“Oh—er—Crawly,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley bit him. Rude.

“Seriously?” Daniel asked. “You named your snake Crawly?”

“Aziraphale isn’t very creative,” Lucifer drawled. Crowley wheezed a laugh against Aziraphale’s thumb.

Chloe frowned at them. “How urgent is it? The vet?”

Crowley shook his head emphatically enough that Daniel gave a little chuckle.

“Looks like he’s weighing in,” he said, amused. “Doesn’t seem to want to go.”

“My dear, you gave me quite the scare,” Aziraphale told his snake.

Crowley gazed at him with his sweet golden eyes, his scales like emeralds, and love came from him in waves. Without words, he begged to stay. Aziraphale stroked the top of his little head. He was not cold.

“He seems to have warmed some,” he said softly. “Miss Lopez, have you found anything?”

“Venom,” she said, and vibrated. “I think.” She glanced at Daniel and added, “Crowley said—something familiar. So familiar he couldn’t identify it. I found hemotoxins. I think it’s snake venom. It’s—all broken down into its components, so I don’t know for sure, but the body was all, you know, mushy and liquidy. I think the venom might have prevented the blood from clotting.” She licked her lips. “Um, did you find your—guy?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “We searched all night, and then Crowley fell ill.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Miss Lopez said sadly, eyes on the jewel-colored snake in Aziraphale’s arms. “And that’s why he’s, you know--?” She glanced at Daniel.

“Home!” Chloe blurted. “With Raguel. Yes.”

Poor Daniel looked terribly confused.

Watchdog nuzzled up to Aziraphale’s hip, huge eyes on Miss Lopez. She squeaked her toy.

“You can say hello, my dear,” Aziraphale told her warmly. “I’m sure Miss Lopez would love to pat you.”

She beamed. “Would I! C’mere, Watchdog, I’ve heard _so _much about you!”

Watchdog glanced at Aziraphale and Crowley, and then trotted up to her, politely sniffing her hand. Miss Lopez scratched and scratched, and Watchie wriggled with joy at the attention.

“What’s this? Is this a _llama_?!” gasped Miss Lopez. “I love it!”

Watchdog wagged and wagged her tail. In Aziraphale’s arms, Crowley sighed, exasperated with his charming, nonthreatening Hellhound. Aziraphale smiled to himself. 

“Did you find anything on your end?” Aziraphale asked Chloe. From the corner of his eye, he saw Daniel offer Watchie a hand to sniff, and she wagged her tail for him, too. She really did love humans. 

“Not much,” Chloe said with a sigh. “We have an ID, though. His name was Tommy Barnes, and he went to UCLA. His family’s out in Montana, and he didn’t have many friends. We were going to interview them today.”

“Still don’t know if it was murder or death-by-nightmare,” Lucifer scowled.

Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s little head. He arched up into it.

“Detective Decker!” A man strode his way across the bullpen, looking severe and determined. He frowned. “Detective, who is this?”

“Oh—Lieutenant, this is a friend of the family,” Chloe said. “He’s related to Lucifer. Aziraphale, this is Lieutenant Wells. Lieutenant, this is Aziraphale—um—”

“A nickname,” Aziraphale said smoothly, long used to having a strange name. “You can call me Ezra Fell. I own a bookshop in London.” He shifted Crowley onto one arm and held out the other hand to shake.

“Is that a snake?” blurted the Lieutenant.

“Yes. His name is Crawly.” Crowley bit him again, harder this time. “He’s perfectly friendly, I assure you.” Crowley chewed at him angrily, for all the world an incredibly unfriendly snake. Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

The Lieutenant frowned. He clearly didn’t want to shake the hand of someone holding a perfectly beautiful little snake. Aziraphale dropped it. Crowley hissed at the Lieutenant, offended.

He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it is a workday, Detective Decker, and we are a precinct, not a zoo. I have another body for you.” He edged around Aziraphale and offered the file, which Lucifer snatched.

“Someone gnawed on?” Lucifer asked, excited.

The Lieutenant cleared his throat. “Yes. You did request that.”

“Excellent. We’ll be taking Aziraphale and his zoo. Chop chop!” Lucifer smiled a blinding smile, and the Lieutenant practically scurried away.

“Lucifer,” the detective scolded.

“That was just mean,” Miss Lopez agreed, but her eyes were twinkling with a kind of wicked glee.

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley. “What just happened?”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“The new Lieutenant has a crush,” Miss Lopez said. “And you should be nicer, Lucifer!”

“The new Lieutenant is just—ripe for the plucking, if only I could.” Lucifer gave Chloe a sad, melting look. She looked more amused than swayed.

“Monogamy,” she said, unsympathetic. “So hard.”

“_So hard, _detective_,_” Lucifer said plaintively, but he was grinning, and he just loved her, Aziraphale thought. He could feel it. Lucifer loved her terribly, it trembled in him, how much he loved her. 

It soothed something in Aziraphale, as it always did. He’d been so frightened, that first time he’d seen the Devil in eons, the Devil who essentially dragged his darling demon about by his ears. That love was real, though, and it was a fractal: the more you looked, the greater it was. Lucifer had set Crowley free, and had become an honest friend, and he loved Chloe Decker to distraction. There was no lie in him. 

“The crime scene?” Aziraphale asked him, a little stiffly, “Lucifer?”

“Ah, listen, I know what he said—” Daniel started, but Chloe interrupted him.

“He can come, Dan,” she said. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t really, but Aziraphale, his dog and his serpent were bundled into the back of a police car regardless. They left poor confused Daniel back at the precinct.

“Can I change back now?” Crowley asked, once they were on the road.

“Just be certain nobody sees you,” said Lucifer from the front of the car.

“What am I, an amateur?” Crowley scoffed. He slipped softly from Aziraphale’s arms and coiled onto the seat next to him. A little shiver, and he was man-shaped again, though his hair was a little mussed from the wind on the beach, when they’d tried to watch the sunrise. Aziraphale reached over and fixed it, concerned. Watchdog thumped her tail at the sight of him, shaped like a man again.

“How do you feel, Crowley?” Chloe asked, moments before Aziraphale did.

“I’m fine,” Crowley said irritably. “It was just a nap.” He patted Watchdog’s head.

“My dear, that was terrifying,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley frowned at him.

“Lucifer,” Aziraphale said, soft but determined, “If it will not cost a favor, if it’s a gift, you should call this Marbas. Please.”

“Marbas? Are you looking for a secret?” Crowley said, puzzled. 

“He’s a healer, isn’t he?” Aziraphale said anxiously.

“Aziraphale. Angel. Actual light of my extremely long life. Demons aren’t healers in the same way that angels are.”

“He won’t hurt you if I’m there, Crowley,” Lucifer said. “He’ll do precisely as told, no more and no less. Aziraphale is right. You were very, very cold.”

Crowley gulped. “I’m fine,” he said.

“You aren’t!” Aziraphale burst out. “You aren’t at all! _There is no monster to fight, Gaderel, it isn’t a shadow-beast, how can I guard you against an invisible foe?_”

Watchdog flinched, hard, and Crowley let out a shocked breath, and Aziraphale realized that that was Enochian, and Crowley’s Name. He wasn’t a Cherub. Crowley wasn’t his charge. Crowley was his demon and he was a Principality. _“Apologies,” _he said, aghast, but that was still Enochian—

“Stop,” said Crowley in English. His voice was hoarse. “Stop. You’re panicking.” He held up a hand. “Don’t call me that. Please.” His voice cracked.

Aziraphale closed his eyes miserably. _“Sunshinesweetlove,” _he whispered.

“That, you can call me,” Crowley said, a little wry. Still looking shell-shocked, he patted the air and reached until he touched Watchdog. He stroked her ears. His fingers shook, and that was awful. 

“Oof,” said Lucifer cheerfully, from the front. “That was a doozy. Angel-name,” he told Chloe lightly. “None of us like to hear our angel-names.”

“Lucifer,” she hissed.

“What? He said it, not me. I punched a hole in Linda’s wall when she called me by mine. Crowley, don’t break the windows.”

“I’m not going to break the _bloody _windows,” Crowley snapped. “He didn’t mean it. Leave him alone.” He stopped petting his dog and took Aziraphale’s hand, incredible forgiveness in his golden eyes. The shaking had calmed, mostly. Aziraphale squeezed his hand, trying to banish it entirely. He felt terrible.

“Can you say it in English?” Crowley said.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered back. He conjured a pair of sunglasses and offered them meekly.

“There you are.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand back and took the glasses.

“And I’m sorry about introducing you as Crawly, I know you hate that name, but I couldn’t think—”

“That one was because you’re a bastard,” Crowley said with a small smile. “I enjoy your bastard qualities. I will still bite you if you do it again.”

Aziraphale chuckled weakly.

“You aren’t that angel anymore,” he said after a moment. “You’re better. You’re more. That angel died in the Fall and you were forged in the green of the Garden, in the sands of Earth; I’m sorry. I have never thought of you as anything but a demon.”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah that—helps. Thanks.” He pulled Aziraphale’s hand onto his lap, and he played with the well-manicured fingers.

Aziraphale was doing very, very poorly today, in terms of hurting people. He tried to breathe deeply, but it didn’t really work properly. He felt like he hadn’t quite solidified yet, like he could lose himself in a moment. Crowley was still upset. Crowley would be upset for a good long while. Saying a Fallen angel’s Name was like forcing a fist into an old wound, even if it was unintentional, even if it was said with absolute love. Aziraphale wanted to wail. He wanted to wrap Crowley up in his wings and sob out apologies.

He also wanted to slay something, that old Cherub impulse, and that was very frightening, particularly because Lucifer was in the front seat, Satanic and Evil and just the sort of thing he would be ordered to fight, before the Beginning. He focused on the feeling of Crowley bending and unbending his fingers. Crowley was never a thing to slay, not really, nothing beyond that doubtful voice that was easy to ignore. Crowley was beloved. It helped. 

“Boss, I’ll see that demon,” Crowley said at last, almost at a mumble[1].

“Good,” Lucifer said. “I’ll stay in the room.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. He fiddled with Aziraphale’s fingers unhappily.

“Can I help?” the detective asked softly. “With—anything.”

Crowley laced his fingers through Aziraphale’s. “Tell me about the case,” he said.

“The file said that she was a twenty-one year old female,” Chloe replied dutifully. “This time there is enough of the body left to identify; it looks like our, um, ghoul got scared away. It only ate part of a leg. We’ll know more when we get there.”

“So it’s scavenging, then,” Aziraphale said softly. He ran his thumb along the back of Crowley’s hand. “Not killing.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Chloe said gently. “It could have killed and then gone to eat the body, but maybe something spooked it.”

“Hate Nightmare World,” Crowley muttered.

“That’s hardly news, Crowley,” Lucifer said dryly. “I also hate the bloody place.”

“Have you made any progress with those holes, boss?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Lucifer sighed. “I need the Lady Door. I can control the firmament of our Hell, but not the firmament of Nightmare World’s Hell. I needed Asteroth and his magics to get her in and out safely. Of course, that plan’s kaput now. I’d do it myself, but it’s risky; the living do not belong in Hell, you understand—it affects their minds. I need an carrier, a second point, to keep her safe. As of now, the holes are guarded by dogs, and it’s got it—somewhat under control. Azazel has legions patrolling the streets of Dis. He hates Nightmare World just as much as I do. That Dean Winchester killed his counterpart. Poor fellow isn’t sure if he wants revenge, or to never set foot there again.”

“Never set foot again.” Crowley turned Aziraphale’s hand over and traced little swirls in his palm. Aziraphale shivered pleasantly. “Dean Winchester belongs to Castiel.”

“And it’s against our rules to kill a human,” Lucifer agreed. “Never mind theirs. I ordered him to guard Dis. But without Asteroth’s help, I can’t get Door Down There and can’t close the holes. The last one I saw on Earth closed itself. Or maybe Mum closed it[2].”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked up at each other, equally surprised.

“Mother?” Aziraphale blurted.

“It’s a long story,” Lucifer muttered.

Mother, who used to look on the legions of Cherubs and smile? Who used to pat Kerubiel on the head and tell him what a marvelous job he was doing, while the rest of them stood about til they went stiff? Who only bothered to pay any mind to the Seraphs and the Archangels? Who was cast off to Hell, and good riddance?

Crowley tapped two fingers against Aziraphale’s palm. When Aziraphale looked at him, he smiled, though that sorrow from his Name still lingered in the corner of his lips.

Aziraphale realized, with some surprise, that he didn’t know how Crowley felt about their capricious Mother. Had he known her? Aziraphale hadn’t, really. He’d only seen her when she’d visited Kerubiel. Kerubiel had taken Aziraphale from the nest as an eyas, along with the others of his caste, to be trained. Mother had Named him, and she had left him for the Archangels. He wondered what had happened to Crowley.

Crowley had worked for the Hall of Being. He’d worked on things like _up _and _down,_ concepts that required the attention of full teams of angels, this Aziraphale knew from morose, drunken conversations. Crowley had worked on stars and nebulas, too; it was how he had met Lucifer. Aziraphale had never met Crowley before the Fall[3]. What had he been like as an eyas? He’d never asked. He pictured a very little creature, for Crowley had been of the lowest caste, soft black down, great golden eyes, endless questions, and he wanted to protect that eyas with all he had.

“What about Adam?” Crowley was saying.

“What _about _Adam_?_” Lucifer scowled.

“I bet he could make it safe for the Lady Door to walk the streets of Dis,” Crowley said. “You’d have to owe him a favor, though.”

Lucifer turned around and peered at them thoughtfully through the grating separating the front of the car from the back. He frowned. “He is alive,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. “It’s the same problem as Door. The rules change in Hell, and I'd rather not accidentally affect our Antichrist's mind. But I’ll look into it.”

Chloe pulled the car down a strange wide street that abruptly turned into a green plaza. The place was swarming with American panda cars, and she parked them right on a corner, in a space apparently left for her.

“Come on,” she told them. “Showtime.”

_______

[1] Oh, but that Name burned. It burned him inside and out and he knew Marbas would carve and carve at him, knives and symbols and everything horrid, but maybe it would help with this writhing emptiness he felt now, like he’d Fallen all over again. And what was worse, Aziraphale still looked on the verge of tears; he wasn’t back to himself yet, not enough for something like this. This was too much stress, too soon. Crowley wanted to go home.

[2] Lucifer was trying not to think about it. He was trying not to think about it because he was certain that this problem would end with him back Downstairs, and he desperately didn’t want that. He would much rather play detective with Chloe. Maybe if he ignored it hard enough, it would go away.

[3] This was untrue. They met only once. Aziraphael had been patrolling, and Gaderel had been sitting, morose, atop a building in the Silver City. Gaderel had been thinking about Carasel, about how Carasel was dead and what that meant, because it still didn’t understand how an angel could just be gone. Aziraphael had sent Gaderel home, because it was after curfew. Aziraphael had been kind, where most Cherubs would be brusque. Gaderel had cherished that, at least, until the Fall had obliterated anything lovely about Heaven. The moment was so brief, so mundane, and Crowley so different from Gaderel, that Aziraphale didn’t remember any of this. As for Crowley, that day was burned away by the Fall, and all that came after; he didn’t remember either.


	12. Chapter 12

They piled out of the car. Watchdog slunk close to Crowley, who still looked terribly unhappy. Lucifer stood straight and tall and he flanked Chloe like they were going into battle, eyes bright and protective. It was rather sweet to watch, all things considered. Aziraphale hurried to catch up to Crowley and Watchdog. He walked close enough so their shoulders knocked, and his demon smiled at him, sorrow hanging like a tear on his cheek. Wretched Name. Wretched Fall. 

Wretched Aziraphale, he thought viciously to himself. 

They’d cordoned off the body with yellow police tape. Miss Lopez was already there, snapping on a pair of purple gloves within the little square made by the tape. She beamed at them.

“Alright!” she called. “Everyone out! Decker in the house!” She trotted up to the tape and lifted it, letting them in.

Chloe strode up to the two anxiously hovering officers and pulled them aside, speaking in a low, urgent voice. Lucifer followed her at an amble, not quite predatory, though the interview ended shortly after he came to a halt at her side.

“Uh,” said one of the officers when they finished, “Is that a dog?” He looked at Watchdog with huge eyes. She was sitting at Crowley's side, but she wagged her tail at the attention. 

“No.” Crowley lowered his glasses, and the officer took a stumbling step back with a gasp. “She’s a small pony. Now scram.”

The officer scrammed. Lucifer chuckled. 

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale told Crowley.

“What—what did you do?” Chloe demanded. She marched up to a rather startled Crowley. 

“Just scared him, that’s all,” Crowley told her with a hesitant smile. “The eyes, you know. He’s fine, I promise. I’m not nearly as scary as yours truly over there.” He nodded at Lucifer. 

Lucifer scowled at him. “Not my best trait,” he said.

“Dead useful, though.”

“Well, don’t do that next time,” Chloe told Crowley, irritated. “They’re the first officers on the scene; I just interviewed them, but we might need to talk to them more later.”

Chastised, Crowley made a face, but otherwise didn’t comment. There was a downward tick at the corner of his lips that Aziraphale didn’t like, though, that said he was more upset than he was letting on. Still smarting from his Name, he was likely feeling overly sensitive to reprimand. Poor love. Aziraphale felt awful.

Lucifer had turned to Miss Lopez, who had pulled what looked like a camera out of a bag somewhere. “What can you tell us, Miss Lopez?”

“Let’s see….” she murmured.

The body was of a young woman in rather short shorts, presumably running shorts, though Aziraphale was admittedly not the best judge of things. The shorts were bright green and black, anyway. One leg, of course, had been chewed on rather extensively, but the other leg was puffy and black, skin rippling in tendrils and disappearing up under her shorts. It looked hideous and very painful.

“That’s a snake bite,” Crowley said, attention effectually stolen.

“Looks like,” Miss Lopez said. Thoughtful, she looked at Crowley. “Can you tell me what kind?”

“Rattlesnake,” said Crowley immediately. “That’s how she died.”

“I thought so, too,” said Miss Lopez. “Rattlesnake for sure. Looks like she’s been dead for about three hours. Bites on the other leg were postmortem, so our monster looks like a ghoulish scavenger.”

“Snake bite,” Chloe said slowly. “Ella, you said the last one had traces of venom, too, didn’t you?”

“Just traces; this one’s definitive. Look at that necrosis.”

Crowley was frowning. “I can—ask around,” he said. “Snakes aren’t very good conversationalists, but if someone’s hanging out in the middle of a city that’s just—weird.”

“You can do that?” Chloe asked.

“I’m a snake,” Crowley shrugged.

“So Crowley speaks Parseltongue and that’s awesome,” Miss Lopez said conversationally, “Please do that. But most likely someone’s keeping it in like a terrarium or something. I don’t know how you get a snake to bite on a command—”

“You ask him nicely, dear,” Aziraphale said lightly, and Lucifer choked, and then cackled. Chloe pinched her nose between her fingers, and even Crowley huffed, amused, though Aziraphale couldn’t imagine why. He was half a mind to ask Crowley what everyone thought was so funny, but Crowley spoke before he could. 

“You idiot,” he said affectionately, and a small amount of that earlier sorrow evaporated from his cheek. “Rattlesnakes are bad tempered,” he added Miss Lopez. “If you piss one off enough, it’ll go for it. It’s not hard.”

“Hmm,” she said doubtfully. “No signs of a struggle,” she added. “But here’s something weird: no cell phone.”

“No cell phone?” Chloe asked.

“Mm-hm. Not in her pockets, not in her bag. If she had it, she could have called an ambulance. Snake venom’s scary, but with the right medical attention, you‘ll be fine. No phone--no medical attention. No medical attention—” she mimed choking and dying.

“Bad way to go,” said Crowley darkly, and he would know. Aziraphale, unable to endure his upset demon anymore, strolled up to stand at his shoulder and watched even his nearness soothe the tension in Crowley’s neck. Good.

“If we find the phone, we'll find our murderer,” Lucifer said, a weird, predatory gleam in his eye.

He liked this, Aziraphale realized. Even Chloe was standing straighter, ready to seek and run like a hunting dog. He shuffled a little closer to Crowley.

Sherlock Holmes, of course, loved the chase. He came to Crowley sometimes, and Crowley give him petty criminals – petty criminals with convoluted methods, and it kept the poor Holmes boy occupied for days. That Watson was good for him, really, though he’d tried to buy a book off Aziraphale once, and that was simply unacceptable. The two of them had taken down James Moriarty, a nasty sort of fellow who had loitered around Crowley’s flat in Mayfair one too many times, looking for easy pickings, looking for a _mentor_. Crowley had, mostly out of habit, given the man advice, before sending him away. That blasted Moriarty had tried to Summon him and Bind him, though—too clever by half. Crowley had been furious, but more than that, he’d been frightened. 

Unacceptable. Aziraphale had torn through those Bindings like tissue paper. He remembered how to play the game, of course: he moved his little chess pieces a few squares, and Sherlock Holmes had caught the scent. That old Moriarty didn't sniff around Crowley anymore after that, too intrigued with the Homes boy. Good. 

Sherlock's triumph would have been a feather in Aziraphale’s cap, in truth, but those days were done. He just wanted that man away from his demon, and it had worked, well enough. Sherlock Holmes on the scent was as good as it got. The man was a bloodhound.

He could see that, that strange gleam, in Chloe Decker. Lucifer orbited her like a moon, like a satellite, and he vibrated with it, too. The hunt. The chase. They lived for it. 

Good.

This was where Aziraphale stepped back and left the hounds to their kill.

“Do we have her name?” Chloe asked.

“Umm,” Miss Lopez said. She rifled through the poor girl’s pockets, through her bag. She made a few unhappy sounds, before pulling out a battered white card that looked like it had been snapped in half, lengthwise.

“Laura Hershel,” she said. “Half a Student ID,” she said. “Someone took her wallet, too.”

“It’s not a mugging gone wrong.” Chloe said.

“Too many snakes for that,” Lucifer agreed jovially.

Crowley inched closer to Aziraphale, nervous. Aziraphale leaned into him a little, trying to support him, trying to say without words that he wasn’t one of the snakes that hurt people. Crowley really didn’t like dead things.

“Some kind of trophy?” Chloe murmured. “Why take the wallet?”

“Makes the body harder to identify,” Miss Lopez offered.

“Hmm,” Chloe said. “Alright. We need to find Laura’s friends and family, find who saw her last. Crowley: see if you can find any rattlesnakes around here and what they might have to say.” She grimaced, like even saying that felt ridiculous, but after everything surely the poor girl was used to Celestials by now?

“No,” Lucifer murmured, with a soft-eyed, apologetic look to the detective. “First Marbas, Crowley. This is a university—there must be a creepy, empty room around here somewhere.”

Crowley shivered all over. Aziraphale frowned at him.

“My dear?”

“Stay out here with Chloe,” Crowley said flatly. “Watchie. Stay with Aziraphale.” He nodded to Lucifer, and together they strode off, out of the tent, without a backwards glance. Surprised at the sudden departure, Aziraphale blinked at his dog, who came over to sit at his side with a whimper. He patted her head, confused. 

“Um. What just happened?” Miss Lopez said.

“I have no idea,” Chloe said. She sounded equally surprised. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about the demon Marbas, only that he’s a healer.”

“A healer?” Miss Lopez asked.

“Yeah, Crowley’s been having—Linda said they were seizures,” Chloe said.

Aziraphale swallowed. He felt tremendous guilt over Linda. He nodded without saying anything.

“You said he wasn’t feeling well,” Miss Lopez said slowly. “So he’s seeing a—a demon doctor?”

“Demons aren’t healers the way angels are, he says,” Aziraphale said, low and worried. He fiddled with Watchie's soft, pointed ear. “But better he sees one that not.” He dithered, a moment of awkward silence. He wanted to run after Crowley, but he knew that was a terrible idea. Worry chewed at him. Watchdog carefully put her llama on the ground, and licked at his hand. It helped.

“We should find Miss Hershel's friends,” Aziraphale told Chloe, at last. “Lucifer and Crowley will find us, when they are finished.” There wasn’t anything to be done. Lucifer would take care of his demon, surely. They were friends. Crowley had followed Lucifer down to Hell and he had come back, whole and hale. If Aziraphale blundered in, he’d just make everything worse. Best to get this case going, surely, best to set Chloe on the trail, so they could find their culprit and Aziraphale could _smite them as Michael smote Herod**[1]**. _

He took a deep steadying breath. His job was not to smite this human. Chloe was on the case. Aziraphale was a Principality. He was going to guide Chloe, as he had guided a hundred thousand humans, and he was going to do no harm. Probably.

Aziraphale was the one and only angel, Fallen or otherwise, allowed to kill humans without specific orders. He had done it three times over the course of history: one during war, and the other two in self-defense, a last resort. He absolutely hated it. He had no desire to kill a fourth time.

Let Chloe make the arrest, he decided. Human justice for a human, as it should be. For the ghoul—he’d smite the ghoul. There now. That would satisfy that bloodthirsty Cherub, wouldn’t it?

It didn’t sit right. Something was still off. _Rattlesnakes. _

But Chloe was nodding slowly. “You’re right. If she went to UCLA, they’ll have her on record. Come on.”

Record?

Aziraphale looked down at Watchdog, who seemed to shrug before scooping up her llama, and they followed Chloe out of the tent. She seemed to know where she was going; she led Aziraphale and Watchdog at a brisk walk. They walked for a good long while, far into campus it seemed, to a rather bland looking building. She walked through the glass doors like she was quite familiar with them.

“Where is this?” Aziraphale asked. Watchdog’s claws clicked on the linoleum floor.

“Registrar,” Chloe said. “The amount of cases I’ve had at UCLA—” she shook her head sadly.

What followed was all very impressive, Aziraphale thought. Chloe found a front desk and flashed her badge. “My name is Detective Chloe Decker,” she told the woman behind the desk. “I’m investigating the death of Laura Hershel. I believe she was a student here. I need as much information as possible about her, please, and quickly.”

The woman behind the desk put her hand over her mouth. “Can I see your badge again?” she whispered. Chloe showed her, and she nodded and nodded.

“Alright. Of course. Oh, god. When did this happen?” She tapped away at her computer.

“We just found the body a few hours ago,” Chloe said. “Time of death looks to be very early in the morning.”

“Oh, god. Here: I have her grades and her classes and her dormitory. She was a sophomore.”

“Roommate?” asked Chloe.

“Clara Jefferies.”

“Thank you, that’s very helpful. I’m going to send in some officers to look at those records, too; you’ll be hearing from them shortly. Do you know if Clara Jefferies is in class at the moment?”

“Yes. Biology. Here’s the building and room number.” She scribbled it on a small, brightly colored piece of paper.

“Thank you. There will be more officers here shortly. You’ve been very helpful. Come on, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale followed her, almost at a run, back to the car. It took a while; the campus was very large. She gestured for him to sit beside her in the front; Watchdog squeezed in, somewhat ridiculously, to curl up awkwardly at his feet. She turned the car on, smiling.

“She can go in the back, you know,” she said, but she seemed to know that that wasn’t happening.

“She’ll cry,” Aziraphale told her.

Her smile turned into a chuckle. “Shepherd does too. You know, Lucifer somehow registered her as a service dog. She goes to school with Trixie, this enormous German Shepherd.” Chloe backed the car back onto the road.

“My dear,” Aziraphale sighed, “She is a service dog, isn’t she? You rest easier, knowing she’s with Beatrice.”

Chloe glanced at him. “I do. I wish I didn’t—but I do. I can focus. Nothing’s going to hurt Trixie when she’s nearby. Nothing could. You said Watchdog’s a service dog?”

Aziraphale stroked Watchie’s pointed ears. “Not truly. She isn’t trained. But she can—pull me back, sometimes. If I lose myself.”

“That’s a service dog, Aziraphale,” Chloe said dryly.

Aziraphale huffed. “I suppose. How is Beatrice doing? I have not seen her—well. Since everything went to Hell, quite literally.”

“She’s alright. She sticks close to Shepherd.”

Aziraphale stroked Watchdog again, and she wuffled. “Have you spoken to Linda?” It hurt to say her name, but he forced it out.

“Yeah. Trixie too. It helps. You?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Yes,” he said.

“You’re still struggling, aren’t you?” Chloe said gently.

“It gets worse the longer this goes on,” Aziraphale admitted aloud for the first time. “Something is wrong with Crowley, and someone has died and there is a monster I must slay—”

“Can you handle that?”

“The slaying? I think so. The stress?” He laughed, but it was an unhappy sound. “I don’t know.” He hesitated. “I said his Name, Chloe,” he blurted. “It hurts the Fallen terribly, to say their Name. I don’t know what came over me; I feel terrible—”

“He forgives you,” Chloe said. “Aziraphale, you know he forgives you. He forgave you as soon as it happened. Hell, Lucifer forgave you, too. You probably don’t see it, but he gets protective of Crowley, too, you know.”

That was news to Aziraphale, good news even, but he still felt wretched. “It’s still my fault,” he murmured.

“No, it isn’t.” She reached over and squeezed his arm. “It was a mistake.”

“Angels aren’t supposed to make mistakes.”

“Please tell that to Lucifer,” she said dryly, and Aziraphale surprised himself by laughing.

_________

[1] Michael, of course, had had papers; ordinarily he was not permitted to harm a human. He hadn’t enjoyed it. Humans were fun to brawl with but killing them was _awful_.


	13. Chapter 13

She pulled up to another bland, brick and glass building, which seemed to be the makeup of everything in America. “We’re going to have to pull her out of class. Follow my lead.”

“My dear, that is what I planned to do,” Aziraphale said. “Generally speaking, I leave the legwork to the professionals.”

“Legwork? I think I’m insulted,” she said, amused, and tilted her head. Aziraphale followed her.

The interior was bland again, bright enough to chase depression but not so bright as to look too modern, the style Crowley liked. It looked nothing like the universities Aziraphale favored: old, stately, arching stone. There were no books, anywhere, and Aziraphale was somewhat affronted by this. He followed her down several hallways, quite twisted around, until they reached a door with the correct number on it.

“Wait here,” she murmured, and slowly opened the door. She disappeared inside.

Aziraphale breathed deep. The place was musty, but it wasn’t comforting, bookish-musty. He stroked Watchdog’s ears. She thumped her tail and squeaked her llama, offering to play tug. He pulled at the toy, but his heart wasn’t in it, and she could clearly tell. She whined at him. 

Chloe returned, a young woman in tow. The woman, presumably Clara, was white as a sheet.

“Is she alright?” she asked anxiously. Her eyes got even bigger at the sight of Watchdog, black and toothy with a head that reached Aziraphale’s navel, never mind the llama. She took a small step back.

“Oh, she’s perfectly friendly,” Aziraphale assured her. “Say hello, Watchie.”

Watchdog and walked up to the girl. She kept her distance and did not jump, but she did wag her tail and perk her ears, a calm, well behaved dog. Clara smiled a little. “Oh,” she whispered. “Can I--?”

“Certainly,” said Aziraphale, and she tentatively patted Watchie’s head, scratched her ears. She smiled and relaxed.

Aziraphale spotted Chloe watching this, eagle-eyed and calculated. She waited for Clara’s smile to widen to a grin before she asked, “When was the last time you saw Laura?”

“Just this morning,” Clara said. She fiddled with one of Watchie’s ears. “She goes running at like the ass-crack of dawn every day, and she wakes me up every time. Is she—okay?”

Chloe sighed. “She’s not,” she said gently. “We think she’s been murdered, Clara.” 

Clara choked. Watchdog whined at her. She put her toy down to lick at her fingers, trying to comfort her. Clara clutched at the dog’s neck, reaching for the comfort, poor thing. “She’s dead?”

“I’m so sorry,” Chloe said. “Were you close?”

“She was my roommate! She was my friend! Of course we were close.” She made another shocked choking noise. “Yeah, I don’t know anything except that she went for a run, oh god, does that mean there’s someone out there _killing_ people?”

“Well, we’re looking for the murderer,” Aziraphale said. He took a breath, and sort of—exuded comfort, as only an angel could do. “Detective Decker is the best we have,” he said softly. “We’ll catch her killer, don’t you worry; the detective simply needs to ask you a few more questions.”

Clara sniffled and nodded, turning huge eyes to Chloe. She actually knelt to throw her arms around Watchie, who tolerated this, wagging her tail and whimpering. She truly did love humans, poor dear.

“Did Laura have any enemies?” Chloe asked softly.

“What, besides our Bio TA?” Clara laughed, but it was dark. “She’s in the other class, but we have the same TA. Something’s really—off about her. Otherwise, no.”

Chloe wrote this down dutifully. “Friends? Associates? Who does she hang out with?”

Clara listed several names, all of which Chloe recorded.

“And lastly,” Chloe said, “Do you know a Tommy Barnes?”

“Yeah,” Clara said, “I do. He’s doing independent research with the professor.” She tilted her head to indicate the classroom. “He wants to be a herpetologist. He’s got like, eighty geckoes in his room. Last month he collected a bunch of rattlesnakes from the mountains with the lab. They were doing something with their blood, I don’t know.”

Chloe looked up, met Aziraphale’s eyes.

Rattlesnakes.

“Where are they?” Aziraphale asked. “The rattlesnakes. Do you know?”

“I think they’re in the lab.” She rattled off a room number. “Why? What’s this got to do with Laura?”

“I can’t tell you just yet, I’m afraid,” Chloe said. “When was the last time you saw Tommy?”

“Oh, a while ago. He’s kind of a recluse. Likes his geckoes better than people, why?”

“Does he have any enemies?”

“Not that I know of. Is he—is he okay?”

“I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale said.

“Both of them?” she gasped.

“I’m so sorry,” Chloe said gently. “We do need a list of Tommy’s associates.”

Clara took a shuddering breath. “Yeah,” she said, “Yeah, sure. Listen, he was weird, but I can’t imagine anyone would want to kill him!” She hugged Watchdog, who wriggled unhappily at her distress.

She listed a number of students, associates and friends of this reptile-loving Tommy, before Chloe let her go back to class.

“We should see that lab,” Chloe told Aziraphale.

“Wait for Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “He’ll be able to get answers from those snakes.”

Chloe nodded. “Okay. Let’s go back outside. How long do you think this will take them?”

Aziraphale didn’t know. Chloe led him back out into the sunshine anyway. They got back into the car, and she found them lunch at a little café, with outdoor seating so Watchdog could lie panting at Aziraphale’s feet. The sandwich was mediocre, and he was terribly worried for Crowley, but the company was good, at least.

“How many cases have you had here, detective?” Aziraphale asked.

“Too many to count,” Chloe sighed, picking at her salad. “Professors and students—when I started, I was on patrol, you know. I was assigned to UCLA sometimes; the drugs were just—” she shrugged. “I learned my way around.”

“Did you go to university?”

Chloe shrugged again and shook her head, clearly a little ashamed. “I wanted to be an actress for a while, but my dad died and—I tried, but it seemed pointless. I had some credits, but I decided that I wanted to be a cop. You don’t need a degree for that.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “That makes you more impressive, detective, not less. While I am something of a champion of scholarly pursuits, there is a great deal to be said for, er, I think Crowley calls it ‘street brain.’”

“Street smarts,” Chloe said with a chuckle. “Thanks, Aziraphale, that’s very kind. I think.”

“I do mean it.” Aziraphale put down his sandwich and leaned forward earnestly. “I have sat at too many tables with too many sleuths, not to understand some small amount of detective work. You are incredibly talented, Chloe Decker. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

She smiled at him. “Are you doing that angel thing where you’re trying to boost my self-esteem?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Is it working?”

“Yes.” She took a bite of her salad, eyes twinkling. “I know you’re worried about Crowley, and not feeling your best,” she added slowly, “But this is—nice. I don’t get to hang out with just you that often, even if it’s just lunch.”

“Oh, we can change that,” Aziraphale said, and some real cheer returned to him. It dropped almost as soon as it settled. He couldn’t fly over the bloody ocean yet, could he? “Well,” he added, a little darkly, “Once I can fly overseas, anyway.”

“Maybe Trixie and I can come stay in London for a few days,” Chloe said, clearly trying to cheer him up. “London Above, I mean. Last time—was not great.” She faded a little from him then; the frightening memory was strong, despite her marvelous bravery.

“No, I wouldn’t take you back Below,” Aziraphale said, horrified at the very thought. “You don’t belong there, not at all! Above is much nicer, anyway. I do know a great many lovely restaurants. Crowley has a flat in Mayfair, even. I’m sure he’d let you stay there.” Mostly because Crowley tended to live in Aziraphale’s flat above the bookshop, and only returned across town to water and terrorize his plants, or to coerce Aziraphale into watching a film on his ridiculously large television.

“Or another city?” said Chloe. “Could we meet you in, say, Barcelona? I went there on a school trip once and liked it.”

Aziraphale could manage the Channel. On a clear day, you could see land on the other end, an interruption in the shining blue gray of the sea. “Barcelona’s lovely,” he said. “Not as good as London, of course,” he sniffed and she chuckled, “But still lovely. I do like Madrid as well—we can give Paris a miss, though; I was almost executed there—”

“Aziraphale!” gasped Chloe. “Executed?”

“Well is was the Revolution and—”

“—and your fashion sense is still liable to get you executed now, angel. Is there any of that sandwich left?”

Crowley.

Aziraphale shot to his feet, elated to see Crowley and Lucifer walking across the small expanse of grass that sat next to the café. Watchdog wuffed and raced over to him joyfully, and Crowley stopped to scratch her ears.

“Lucifer,” Chloe said, smiling. “How did it go?”

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Lucifer said, frowning. “Marbas found nothing. He’s fine.”

“I’ve been saying I’m fine.” Crowley was scowling. As he got closer, Aziraphale realized he was limping. Between the realization and the next moment, he darted over to his demon and got a shoulder under him.

“Why are you limping?” Aziraphale demanded.

“Because Marbas is a bastard, that’s why,” Crowley gritted.

“Did it hurt you?” Aziraphale fretted.

“It’s a bloody demon; of course it hurt me. It took about a quart of my blood to write every bleeding sigil in the alphabet, it did this thing that felt like _being set on actual fire, _and then it tried to tear my tongue out. It was awful.”

That sounded awful. Aziraphale clutched him closer and glared at Lucifer. “You said you wouldn’t let it hurt him,” he growled.

Crowley sighed softly in his ear, just a huff of breath, really. It wasn’t exasperated. It was comforted. Crowley leaned into him, and Aziraphale’s belly warmed to his nearness and his trust. He kept glaring at Lucifer.

“Well—yes—but I didn’t let it take Crowley’s tongue, did I? Didn’t let it do anything unnecessary. And now we know: he’s not sick.”

“I told you I wasn’t bloody sick,” Crowley muttered, but he leaned his cheek against Aziraphale’s temple, and Aziraphale felt his heart give a twist. 

And he wasn’t sick.

Oh, thank the Lady Above, Crowley wasn’t sick.

“You’re certain?” he said.

“Marbas is the best I have,” Lucifer said, affronted. “If it says Crowley’s not sick, then Crowley’s not sick.”

Crowley nodded softly against Aziraphale’s temple. “He’s right. Marbas knows what it’s doing. It’s an evil shit, but it knows what it’s doing. That sandwich, angel?” The last was plaintive.

“Of course, my dear, come along. Do you want your own?” Of course, they didn’t need to eat, in the long run, but if this Marbas was messing about with Crowley’s blood, it would be easier to miracle it better if he had some raw firmament to work with—that is, food.

“Yes, but I want yours first.”

Of course he did. Aziraphale was worried enough that he forfeited the second half of his sandwich. Crowley, who was after all a demon and knew that he alone had the privilege to steal Aziraphale’s food, sat and ate the thing with relish and smirked at Aziraphale like this was some sort of game, but Aziraphale didn’t take the bait. He did stand next to Crowley, fixing and smoothing his dark hair, which was a tousled mess. It was the closest he could get to preening in this public place. 

“Did you find anything about our snake bitten victim?” Lucifer asked Chloe. He nicked some of her sandwich too[1].

“Yes. Both of them, in fact. Both were in the same biology class. Tommy worked for the professor, and last month he collected rattlesnakes from the mountains, for some sort of experiment.”

Crowley was only sort of chewing the sandwich, mostly tearing out chunks and swallowing it whole. That was a little more snake-like than Aziraphale preferred to see, especially as Crowley tended to be meticulous in public. That he wasn’t being careful didn’t seem like a good sign. Aziraphale leaned on the side of the metal chair and stroked his shoulder.

“Slow down, my dear, you’ll choke,” he murmured.

Crowley gulped. He looked up at Aziraphale over the rims of his sunglasses, huffed out another breath. His lovely citrine eyes were red-rimmed. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

“That bad?” Aziraphale murmured.

“Yes,” said Crowley shortly, looking away. Aziraphale felt like a heel, for requesting this. He put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and silently offered a healing miracle. When Crowley leaned into him, accepting it, he reached and burned away every trace of this Marbas. That blasted creature had carved great, cursed sigils into his leg; no wonder Crowley was limping. They were made to be painful and difficult to heal, but Marbas hadn’t anticipated that Crowley had an angel onside. Aziraphale obliterated them[2]. Crowley sighed, relieved.

“Thankss,” he said.

“Always,” Aziraphale told him fiercely, and Crowley smiled at him before taking his hand and twining their fingers. With his other hand, he finished the sandwich, with slower, more human bites.

Lucifer and Chloe were talking animatedly about rattlesnakes and laboratories and their next steps, but Aziraphale rubbed his thumb over the back of Crowley’s hand and thought. Crowley was not ill. They were not absence seizures. Metaphysically, he felt alright, strong and healthy. Was he cursed, maybe? No, certainly not, Aziraphale would be able to feel a curse a mile off. Something else, then.

He miracled another sandwich for Crowley when he finished the first. A gleam of yellow was his thanks, before Crowley tucked into the next one. Aziraphale thought and thought, but he came up with nothing. Was it something else from Nightmare World, maybe? But there weren’t any Fallen in Nightmare World, according to Castiel, not really; most of them were caged, dead or deranged. Sam had not mentioned that a ghoul would or could have this kind of power. Blasted creature. Blasted Nightmare World. 

“Aziraphale.” Lucifer’s voice was sharp. Aziraphale blinked and focused. “Looking a bit like a sentinel.” He was tense and his eyes flashed protectively. 

“Oh—” Aziraphale said. He realized that he was standing at Crowley's side, holding his hand. He took a seat, a little embarrassed. He hadn’t realized he’d been Guarding.

“He’s hardly going to hurt anyone, boss,” Crowley grumbled. He finished his sandwich. “You’re right about that lab,” he added. “If you can get me alone in there, I can ask the snakes if anyone’s stealing them, or anything.”

“That would be very helpful, Crowley, but to make a conviction I need hard evidence,” Chloe said. “Fingerprints on the glass, missing snakes, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, we can find that, I’m sure,” Crowley said, shrugging. “But the lab is definitely the first stop.” He pushed his plate away.

“Better?” Aziraphale asked him.

“Much.” He smiled.

They made their way back to the car. Lucifer practically frolicked up to Chloe’s side, vibrating with glee at her nearness, at their case, at this adventure. She spoke to him with patience and with affection, and he orbited her like a satellite, eyes filled with stars. His love affair with Earth hadn’t started with Chloe, Aziraphale thought, watching them, but she had certainly helped. The patience on that woman, he thought, amused. Aziraphale would have snapped at Lucifer long ago. Chloe laughed instead, bright and affectionate, and Lucifer lit up, the light bearer again, if only for a moment. 

Crowley was two steps behind them, playing tug with Watchdog as they made their way down the path. Aziraphale paused to watch them play, for a moment; Crowley got the toy and tossed it, gently, up and forwards down the path; his dog raced for it, leaped, and caught it midair. The sorrow lingered on Crowley’s lips, even still, but Watchie was certainly helping. His grin was real, as was his “Attagirl!”

They made it to the carpark, and then into the car. Aziraphale let Lucifer take the front seat, next to his best beloved. That left him in the back, with his serpent and his dog, and Aziraphale would have it no other way.

Crowley scooted over to him, put his head on his shoulder, and promptly fell asleep. It was barely fifteen minutes to the biology building, and that was because there was traffic. Aziraphale pulled him close, rested his nose in that dark hair, and didn’t care a jot.

________

[1] Brat, thought Chloe, more amused than offended. Lucifer stole food all the time, but he was blatantly copying Crowley here. She kind of wanted to laugh and explain that sometimes, different actions meant different things to different couples, but the monkey-see-monkey-do thing was actually kind of—hilarious. Food clearly meant something to Crowley and Aziraphale, something it didn’t mean to her and Lucifer. She’d explain later. Lucifer was ridiculous.

[2] He wasn’t much of a healer but getting rid of demonic sigils was a snap.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever you celebrate, HAPPY HOLIDAYS!! Have a solstice present :D

The professor, Dr. Dawkins, was extremely accommodating. He was an older fellow, portly, with laugh lines around his mouth, though upon hearing of Tommy and Laura’s fate they deepened and darkened, and his blue eyes filled with shocked tears.

“Tommy was so promising,” he whispered. “So promising. Anything I can do to help, Detective. Anything at all.”

“What about Laura?” Lucifer asked.

“I didn’t know her well. She was in my 101 class – it’s over two hundred people. Marcy knew her better; she’s the TA.”

The TA that Clara listed at Laura’s enemy, Aziraphale thought.

“Marcy—?” Chloe asked.

“Marcy Carmichael,” Dr. Dawkins said. “She worked with both of them, though in different sectors.”

Lucifer and Chloe exchanged a significant look.

“Can I see your snakes?” Crowley said, apparently bored with all the questions. Dr. Dawkins blinked at him, surprised at the abrupt topic change.

“The snakes are significant to the case, otherwise we wouldn’t ask,” Chloe said smoothly. “This is Anthony Crowley. He’s my expert.”

“A snake expert!” Dr. Dawkins smiled. “Where did you study?”

“Oxford,” said Crowley[1]. He smiled like the serpent he was. Rascal.

“O-ho, an Oxford boy,” said Dr. Dawkins with a friendly smile. “Right this way. What did you specialize in?”

“Pit vipers.” Crowley told him lightly. “Behavior.” Brat. Aziraphale badly wanted to laugh. Behavior of vipers. Honestly. They liked a good red and a theological discussion, as well as chin scratches, sunglasses, and fast cars. Ridiculous demon. 

“Um. I’m going to have to ask you leave your dog out here,” Dr. Dawkins added when they got to the laboratory door. “I don’t want him to knock anything down.”

“She won’t,” said Crowley. “But she can sit just outside the door, if you like. Watchie, guard the door, will you?”

Watchdog planted herself beside the door, looking fierce as any Hellhound, or as fierce as one could with that llama in her mouth.

“Very obedient,” Dr. Dawkins said, impressed.

“She’s a special breed,” Lucifer purred. “Snakes?”

Dr. Dawkins obligingly opened the door.

The lab was small and cramped, especially after all five of them piled in. But Crowley, his brilliant clever Crowley, stalked up and down both aisles. “Chloe,” he said.

Lucifer and Chloe clustered over to him, leaving Aziraphale with the professor.

“I don’t think I caught your name,” the professor said.

“Oh—Dr. Ezra Fell,” Aziraphale said[2].

“Tell me you’re not a snake expert, too,” Dawkins said, but it was self-deprecating and charming rather than scornful.

Aziraphale chuckled. “Language,” he said lightly, “And theology.”

“And how one affects the other, I’m sure. How interesting. Tell me, what are you doing on this case?” Not condemning; genuine curiosity. This man reminded him of Crowley, a little, if Crowley were of an older appearance and heavier.

The problem was that Aziraphale didn’t have much of an answer for that. He was here because of Asteroth; now Asteroth was gone and there was something wrong with Crowley, and furthermore he couldn’t get home unless he called the Antichrist, and he wasn’t doing that without Crowley, who was thoroughly enmeshed. Also, he had to kill a ghoul.

“Ah—there are some mythical allusions,” Aziraphale said vaguely, thinking of the ghoul. “Very complicated, this case.” He presumed, anyway. He’d never understood detectiving. This was why one had Sherlock Holmes on call.

“Mythical allusions,” sighed the professor. “Snakes—of course.” He sighed, aggrieved. “Humanity has had a complicated relationship with snakes since the dawn of time. Is this killer using my snakes as some kind of metaphor?” He sounded as though this would break his heart.

Aziraphale darted his eyes over to his Serpent, who had scooped a rattlesnake out of a tank and was talking to it, low and quiet. Best keep the professor distracted.

“We don’t know yet, I’m afraid,” he said. “Both where killed with venom. Tell me – is it possible to train a snake to bite on command?”

“That depends on what you mean,” Dawkins said.

“How so?”

“What is the command?” Dawkins smiled at him. “It’s easy to train a snake to strike when the cage door opens, for instance; if you feed with each opening of the door, the snake comes to expect food, and strikes each time.”

“I see,” murmured Aziraphale.

“What does your expert say?” He nodded to Crowley, who had thankfully put the rattlesnake back into its container.

“He says the venom belongs to rattlesnakes,” Aziraphale shrugged. “The bodies were—not in very good shape, I’m afraid.”

“Well, they wouldn’t be,” said Dawkins. “Rattlesnake venom causes necrosis. Very painful way to go. Not quick, though,” he added slowly.

“Oh?”

“It takes six hours to two days to die from a rattlesnake bite. I saw Laura just the other day, I believe, in my class. Surely your expert knows that?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Crowley!” he called.

Crowley looked up. “How long does it take to die by venom?” Aziraphale asked.

“Mine? Half an hour, for a mid-sized mammal,” he said, offhand.

“What?” Dawkins said.

“Not you, you idiot!” Lucifer hissed. “By rattler!”

“Oh. Uh.” He looked down into one of the cages. “Little over a day, at a guess,” he said[3].

“That—doesn’t make sense,” Chloe said slowly. She frowned. “We have to find Clara again; Laura should have been showing symptoms before she went for a run.”

“Oohh, murderous roommate!” Lucifer wriggled, all delight. “Let’s go!”

Dr. Dawkins sputtered a little, but Aziraphale thanked him kindly, and ended up with a little scrap of paper with a phone number on it, though he wasn’t quite sure why. When he showed it to Crowley, perplexed, Crowley actually had the nerve to growl, a real demonic growl like he never did, and he lit it on fire.

“What is it with you and snake people?” Crowley demanded.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said plaintively, and he really didn’t. Crowley clucked at him and took his hand, pulling him back into the police car. He was, Aziraphale thought with some satisfaction, no longer limping. Watchdog jumped in after them, and then the door closed.

Chloe was requesting backup over the radio. “I think we have to bring her in,” she said when she hung up. “Since she won’t fit in the back of the car.” She arched a playful eyebrow at them in the rearview. 

“We could—er—” Aziraphale started.

“Best not,” Lucifer said dryly.

Crowley rolled his eyes so obviously that Aziraphale could practically see it in his whole body, never mind the sunglasses. He slid over and curled up next to Aziraphale in the back seat.

“Crowley?”

“The snakes are doing it too,” he muttered.

“Doing what?” Lucifer asked.

“They’re losing time. They’re getting cold, falling into lethargy. The one I spoke to said she woke with the taste of dirt in her mouth, and mammal-blood.” He leaned into Aziraphale’s side. “It’s the same thing. I’m not sick. It’s—a curse, maybe, I don’t know. Someone’s messing about with snakes.”

“There were screen clips with fingerprints on the tanks,” Chloe said. “We took them for evidence.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. He pressed into Aziraphale until Aziraphale wrapped an arm about his middle, holding him close.

Not ill.

Cursed.

He frowned. Old, protective fury rose in him like smoke from a fire. Cursed? His Crowley? He cast a blessing on him, a strong one, not the sort of thing he used for paradoxes. It would scorch an ordinary demon, even probably singe Lucifer, but Crowley was used to such things. All he did was shiver.

“What’re you--?” he asked.

“Watch it!” snapped Lucifer from the front, jumping a little. Watchdog yelped. 

“You’re not cursed,” Aziraphale murmured. “Or blighted. If you were, I could burn it out of you.”

“Are you just throwing that about, willy-nilly?” Lucifer spluttered, indignant.

“Lucifer?” asked Chloe, alarmed, but Aziraphale’s hearing had gone a little off-kilter.

_“I am,”_ Aziraphale snarled, probably more vehemently than necessary.

“English,” Crowley murmured. “That was Enochian, angel.” He leaned over to pat his dog, who was watching Aziraphale with huge, startled eyes. 

_“Someone’s cursed you,” _Aziraphale growled.

“You just determined, extremely definitively I might add, that they didn’t,” Crowley said dryly, not afraid, never afraid, not even when Aziraphale was at his most dangerous. “No curse could survive that. Now you have to come back to me, sweetheart; you’re still speaking Enochian.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He tried to apologize, but what came out of his mouth was, _“I will smite whomever dared to harm you.”_

A short huff from the front seat; Chloe Decker glanced at him from the rearview. Her eyes were huge, and Aziraphale realized she couldn’t understand Enochian. This was probably very frightening for her; it was not a beautiful language, really, ranging from eagle screams to starling twitters.

“And I appreciate that, I do, really, but you’re slipping, and I need you to come back to me. Can you give me three things?”

Three things. Three things. He’d been thinking of—

“Maria,” Aziraphale whispered. The rest was in Spanish, but close enough. “María Isidra de Guzmán y de la Cerda. Estudié con ella en España en el siglo dieciocho. Una mujer brillante. I—Agnes Nutter, who wrote true prophecies,” the bit about Agnes, at least, was in English, thank Heaven. “She was burned at the stake, but she took the village with her, by all accounts.”

“Crafty old thing,” Crowley said with a smile. 

“And—Lord Portico of the House of Arch. He could open doors, and that old Croup murdered him.” The last was angry, but the normal, sane kind of anger that happened in English and other Earthly languages.

“Better,” said Crowley. “And not a word out of you,” he added, loudly, to Lucifer.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said loftily.

“What—just happened?” Chloe asked.

“Aziraphale waved around a Hell of a blessing to burn any sort of curse out of Crowley, and that would normally injure a demon, but Crowley is mysteriously fine—”

“Used to paradoxes,” Crowley said cheerfully.

“—which is disgusting but who can blame you; paradoxes are deeply excellent, wouldn’t you agree, Chloe dear?”

Chloe chuckled. “Yes, I would. Continue.”

“And then Aziraphale lost it for a second plotting the demise of whomever might have harmed our resident demon. Does that about sum it up?”

Aziraphale sank into the sticky, uncomfortable back seat, embarrassed. Watchie sniffed at him hesitantly. He patted her, feeling sheepish. He had scared her, and he felt sorry for it. “Rather.”

Crowley nestled into him. “Leave him alone,” he told Lucifer. 

There was a brief moment of silence. “Where are we headed to?” Crowley asked.

“Back to the precinct,” said Chloe.

“Great,” said Crowley, and the traffic cleared, as if by magic. In the rearview, Lucifer gave Crowley a dirty look. Aziraphale pulled him closer, trying to quell the rising protective urge. Lucifer was a friend. Not a shadowbeast. Friend, friend, friend.

He curled his arm around and cuddled Crowley, and Crowley melted into him like he had been dying for the affection all day, and he likely had. Terrible, awful day, poor love. When they got to Raguel’s, Aziraphale decided, after he closed the door to the bedroom so Raguel wouldn’t see, Aziraphale was going to take care of Crowley’s wings. A good preening would sort him out, surely.

They made it to the precinct in record time, of course. It was late in the day, and Chloe was clearly displeased; she had called Daniel on the ride over, to pick up Trixie and Shepherd.

“Normally I’d interview another witness tomorrow,” Chloe said, leading them back to the precinct, “But Clara’s a suspect now, and we can’t risk her bolting.”

Aziraphale was feeling rather finished with this terrible day, too, so he cast his own miracle, and did away with traffic for the officers apprehending Clara. Lucifer glared at him as well, but he glared right back, uncaring.

“De_tec_tive,” Lucifer whined as they sat about Chloe’s desk, waiting for their suspect, Watchie sprawled out underneath, “They keep doing miracles!”

Chloe tapped on her computer. “That’s their prerogative, Lucifer.” She spared a puzzled glance at Aziraphale. “What was the miracle?”

“Wait for it,” Crowley muttered. He was leaning against the glass partition on the other side of Chloe’s desk, holding a pot. “What happened to this succulent?” He held it up to the light. It was a sad-looking plant, mostly withered. 

“Lucifer fed it vodka, once,” Chloe said on a sigh.

“You _what?_” Crowley said. He laughed. “Were you punishing it for something?”

“Thought it needed livening up,” Lucifer muttered, sulking. 

Crowley chuckled. He snapped a finger, and Lucifer made an unhappy noise.

“_Again_ with the miracles?” he groaned.

“The light,” Crowley told the plant in a low, threatening croon, “Is not adequate. Suffer. Wilt again, and he’ll give you more alcohol; next time I won’t be around to fix it.” He plonked it back down on the desk.

“Did you just threaten my desk plant?” Chloe said.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, pinching his nose. “He did.”

“I did you a favor,” Crowley said darkly. “Your desk plant is running amok.”

“My desk plant is a succulent, Crowley, it has no legs,” Chloe said dryly.

“Well, with that attitude it’s just going to walk all over you,” Crowley drawled, and Lucifer actually looked concerned. He glared at the succulent.

“They can do that?” he said, a funny protective growl in his voice. 

“No, they can’t,” Chloe said, “It’s a succulent, Lucifer! Crowley, honestly!”

Aziraphale shook his head. He spared Crowley a fond look, but that was all he had time for: his miracle had worked, and an officer was bringing Clara Jefferies into the station. They all watched the officers escort her into the interrogation room.

“Doesn’t look like a witch to me,” Crowley said.

“My dear boy, Anathema does not look like a witch; no witch looks like a witch.”

“Fair. So how do you want to do this, Detective?” Crowley tilted his head at Chloe.

“There’s a room at the back,” Chloe said, rising. “It’s soundproofed. As long as you don’t get too close to the glass, and don’t turn on the light, she won’t see you. You can both observe. Sound alright?”

They looked at each other and nodded. Crowley motioned Watchdog to stay under the desk, and she put down her head with a sigh. 

Chloe and Lucifer strolled down to the interrogation room, and Lucifer pointed out the back door to Crowley. Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and pulled him through.

The room behind the observation mirror was dark, of course. Aziraphale had seen it before, when they’d first met Chloe – she’d taken them into the interrogation room for privacy. It was strange, being on this side of the mirror.

Crowley locked the door, and slipped up behind Aziraphale, arms around his waist and chin on his shoulder. “You alright?” he murmured.

“I’m fine, my dear, but are you? You looked quite unwell, after Marbas.”

Crowley huffed a breath. It whispered against Aziraphale's neck, comforting “It leaves an impression, Marbas. Looks like an enormous, scratched up and starved mountain lion. It bit me to ascertain my humors, or some nonsense, I don’t know. Bloody awful experience, but Lucifer didn’t lie, you know—he really did stop it from doing anything too bad. All kinds of protective warding; no lingering effects. And you healed me, anyway.” He squeezed Aziraphale's middle at the last. “I’ll be alright. Promise.”

Aziraphale leaned his cheek against Crowley’s. “You must stop injuring yourself, my dear,” he whispered.

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” he said. “No luck on this ghoul, huh?”

“Only that both victims seem connected by this serpent-killer. I am—not much of a sleuth.”

“Yeah, I know, me neither. This is why we have Sherlock.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Do you think we should call him?”

“Are you kidding? One word out of his mouth and Lucifer will actually murder him, rules or no rules. ‘You are a disgrace to your profession Chloe Decker,’” Crowley intoned, voice low and mocking and a decent impression of Sherlock. “And bam! Right in the nuts. Lucifer won’t stand for it. And then that Watson of his—”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Well, he shall shoot the Devil in the head.”

Crowley laughed too, warm and alive and pressed all up along Aziraphale’s back. “See? Won’t go well. Oh, there’s Chloe.”

On the other side of the mirror, Chloe was pulling up a chair. Shortly behind her was Lucifer, who settled next to her. On their other side was Clara Jefferies.

The poor girl looked terrified. She was in handcuffs, which Aziraphale thought were rather unnecessary, and her eyes were the size of saucers. “I didn’t kill anyone,” she whimpered. 

“That remains to be seen,” Lucifer purred. Crowley pressed up close to Aziraphale’s back at the barely restrained malice there. He didn’t seem afraid, Aziraphale thought—more enthralled. Eager, as if Lucifer were doing something particularly impressive by being frightening.

Demons. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

Chloe seemed to have similar opinions as Aziraphale. “Just some questions, about Laura, Clara,” she said. “That’s it.” When the poor girl gulped and nodded, Chloe continued. “What time did you say Laura went out running?”

Clara swallowed. “About six AM.”

“And you saw her?”

“Um. Yeah. She w-wakes me up every morning and I can’t go back to sleep after, so usually I get up to make coffee.”

“Was she injured in any way?” asked Lucifer.

“No, of course not, why?”

“Are you lying?” crooned Lucifer.

“What? No! She was fine! She wouldn’t run if she wasn’t fine. Last week she got a blister and used it as an excuse to stay home for three days; she’s a terrible runner.”

Lucifer strolled to the edge of the table, predatory, and leaned at the corner. He glanced at Chloe; at her nod, he leaned in. “Tell me,” he said, low and hypnotizing. “Did you desire to sleep through the morning? What did you really want with Laura Hershel?”

“I—” said the girl, enthralled. Crowley squirmed a little and put his forehead to Aziraphale’s shoulder as if unable to watch. He wasn’t frightened; that was more like—contact embarrassment, Aziraphale realized slowly. He was embarrassed. He was embarrassed that Lucifer was hypnotizing a human. Good, honest fear tactics were impressive; the use of one's gifts, apparently not so much. He huffed a completely inappropriate laugh, and Crowley pinched him. 

“You can tell me,” murmured Lucifer.

“I want her to move in with her boyfriend,” she blurted.

Lucifer sat back, blinking. “What?”

“They have loud sex all the time! And it’s his fault she’s running, anyway!” she complained. “Before Ryan, Laura liked to watch terrible TV with the rest of us, but now she’s always up and away and running with him! But I never wanted her to _die_.” The last was a little choked up.

“Not our man,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Not our man,” Crowley agreed.

“Ryan—that’s Ryan Vestry, correct? You gave me his name at UCLA.” Chloe smiled at her.

Clara nodded. “Yeah. I—haven’t seen him in a while, actually.” Her eyes went big and round. “You don’t think--?”

Lucifer and Chloe looked at each other.

“We’ll send out a team for him,” Chloe said. “Thank you, Clara. That’s been very helpful. Just to confirm: Between six and nine AM this morning you were at home?”

“And class, yeah. I have Lit before Bio. It’s at eight AM.”

Choe nodded, writing this down. “Great. Thank you.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Chloe smiled. Lucifer leaned over and opened the handcuffs.

“Unless our resident celestials want to add anything?” Lucifer asked, looking directly at them through the mirrored glass.

“How do we reply?” Crowley hissed.

“I have no idea,” Aziraphale hissed back. “Chloe said it was sound proofed.”

“One knock for no, two for yes?” Crowley tried. His arms slipped from around Aziraphale and he went over to the glass. He held up a fist, about to knock.

“Oh! Wait! There’s a button!” Aziraphale darted to the big, red button on the side of the glass. He hit it with his palm.

“Angel wait don’t touch that you don’t know what it does!” Crowley cried.

“It’s the intercom, Crowley, he has it right,” Lucifer replied, amused. “Thoughts?”

“Yeah! Large red buttons usually do bad things!”

“Who—is this?” Clara asked Chloe.

“It’s a long story,” sighed Chloe, pinching her nose.

“Well this one doesn’t; do you have _thoughts_?” Lucifer said, exasperated.

“No! Angel and I are completely incompetent; you know this!”

“Crowley!”

“Well, we are.”

“Well, yes, but you don’t need to tell all and sundry.”

“It’s not all and _sundry_; it’s _Lucifer._ He already knows we’re useless—”

“And if I didn’t before, I do now; thank you, peanut gallery.”

“You’re welcome,” Aziraphale said, somewhat lamely, before removing his hand from the intercom.

Crowley snickered. “You’re welcome? Seriously?”

“Oh, shut up,” Aziraphale muttered and Crowley grinned at him, wide and happy, and Aziraphale looked at him and wished that he felt hopeful, but he really didn’t.

_____

[1] Not a lie. Crowley had sat in on many, many lectures in Oxford. In 1267. They had been mostly theology and definitely a laugh, back then.

[2] Also not a lie. Aziraphale certainly had a doctorate degree: he’d taught Latin in churches for years in the Middle Ages, and later had specialized in theology, of course. He even received a Doctorate of Philosophy in the eighteenth century, in Spain. He had apprenticed to a woman, in fact, very rare in those days, and she had greatly appreciated the respect he showed her. It had taken may small miracles to convince those blasted nobles to let them sit together and study. She had been a lovely friend, María de Guzmán, brilliant and _funny, _and he had fallen in love so quickly he had been almost breathless with it. She’d been terribly young, but she taught him well—her aptitude with language had been simply stunning—and he had watched over her for the rest of her tragically short life. Her health had been poor, and Aziraphale really was a terrible healer, though he had done what he could. That doctorate had been years well spent, and entirely worth it, though her death had broken his heart.

[3] Meanwhile, at the precinct, Ella had a Google Chrome tab open on rattlesnakes. Death-by-snake was not something she saw very often, in her line of work, because treatment was readily available and it was a kind of inconvenient murder weapon. But the timeline didn’t quite make sense. At the moment, though, she was doggedly researching the weird black fibers in Tommy’s masticated remains, fibers that matched the ones in Laura’s chewed up leg. They looked like polyester, but that saliva was really messing with her equipment. She was going to figure it out soon, though, that rattlesnakes didn’t kill you quickly. Fibers first.


	15. Chapter 15

Crowley’s wings were dark and soft, and he luxuriated in a preening like no one Aziraphale knew. No blades for his Crowley, because Crowley had never been and would never be a warrior: his dark primaries extended, supple and silky, and he flexed them happily into Aziraphale’s fingers. Crowley’s trust in this matter was precious; though his demon would happily chat and exchange information, it had taken him hundreds of years to feel comfortable even turning his back on Aziraphale.

It came of being Hell-touched, Aziraphale thought, combing his fingers along the soft coverts, listening to Crowley’s low, contented thrum[1]. Kind touches in Hell were rare, or at least they were for Greater Demons who lacked the rank to command sufficient respect. No one in Hell would preen Crowley without hurting him[2]. It made Crowley skittish, made him curl his wings away from any who might touch him.

He hadn’t preened Crowley at all til after the apocalypse, and even then, Crowley had flinched at the first touch for the longest time. Now, Aziraphale slid his hand down through his soft coverts again, and Crowley sighed. The trust was hard-earned, but absolutely worth it[3].

His black powder-down coated Aziraphale’s fingers like dust, and it was comforting, in its way. Aziraphale slid his dowel under Crowley’s feathers and scratched gently to gather more of the powder; Crowley’s thrum deepened and softened, sleepy. Trusting. Lovely demon.

Crowley made a quiet interrogative noise against the tall-backed chair. Aziraphale had paused just a little too long.

“Apologies,” he murmured. “Just thinking.” He focused back on the silky coverts.

“’Bout what?” Crowley murmured, dreamy. Aziraphale rested a hand on his back between his wings and he curled into it, flexible as a snake. Crowley loved being touched, loved affection; it was heartbreaking, how much he loved it, because he had been denied it for—well, just as long as Aziraphale had been, frankly. Aziraphale made his hand into a fist and used his knuckles to rub at some of the long muscles of Crowley’s back. They weren’t the main flight muscles, which were in his chest, but they kept him upright, and he sighed at the touch. He was already so relaxed he was having difficulty keeping the longest primaries from dragging on the floor. They drooped a little more, and Aziraphale smiled and pulled the wing up again. He leaned over and kissed Crowley’s shoulder—the first set, the one attached to his arm. 

“I am very lucky,” he murmured, “That you trust me so.”

“Goes without saying, angel, goes without saying,” Crowley sighed. _“You are at the core of me; how could I not trust my own core?” _Angels didn’t have hearts, of course, not really; the word was a complex one, and connotated something filling something else, like water in a bucket but rather more essential, like blood in the veins. It also had the connotation of bright, bright light, Creation’s light, something splendid. Enochian was not a language for love, not really; too clumsy. Aziraphale ran a nail under a crooked feather, straightening it. Crowley shivered pleasantly.

“My dear boy,” sighed Aziraphale, “I do love you terribly.”

Crowley shook him off gently and the swept his wings behind himself, enfolding Aziraphale in an awkward, backward-embrace. “It’s going to be alright,” he said, still a little drowsy. He’d picked up on Aziraphale’s concern.

Aziraphale tucked his arms under Crowley’s wings to embrace him from behind. He leaned forward awkwardly, pressing his cheek against his back, heedless of the chair. He didn’t say anything, but he stayed that way for a good long while, feeling the warmth of him. Crowley thrummed deep and low, and his chest and back vibrated with it. It was a lovely feeling. Aziraphale thrummed back and meant it down to his core. He closed his eyes, and he hoped that whatever was harming his demon would simply stop.

He finished preening those dark soft wings, and Crowley pulled him to bed, all bright eyes, and curled close. Aziraphale didn’t remember falling asleep, really; he just remembered the closeness, Crowley’s head a pleasant weight on his chest, the unique, wonderful sound of two celestials thrumming in harmony, and the peace that followed.

When he woke, Crowley was gone.

\---

Watchdog's barking, terrified cries woke him that morning. His bed was disturbingly cold, the wrong kind of cold, an absence-cold, but he was groggy enough that it still took him some time to ascertain that not only could Watchie not find Crowley, but that he could not find Crowley, either. That the cold of the bed was wrong in ways he could not articulate because Crowley was elsewhere, and not in Raguel's house at all. Naturally, Raguel was nowhere to be found either, but he had been out detectiving for some time, and anyway that was not the point.

The point was that his Crowley was _missing_. 

Together Aziraphale and Watchdog looked and, increasingly hysterical, she led Aziraphale down and out Raguel’s front door. It was dawn; there was a black feather in the small, sad patch of grass; he’d flown away. This shouldn’t matter so much to Watchie, but she wailed and cried and cried. There was no finding him.

He'd preened those feathers last night. 

At a loss, panic rising in his throat, Aziraphale went to the detective. He actually flew to her house in the weak morning light, holding Watchdog by her scruff. When he touched down at her doorstep he carefully placed his dog on her paws before pounding on the door. He was rather proud of himself for not breaking it down.

Lucifer, wearing a black silk bathrobe and nothing else, yanked it open. “What the hell?”

It was fortuitous that it was Lucifer because Aziraphale was stuck in Enochian. _“He’s gone, he’s gone, I don’t know where he is,” _he blurted.

“Are you sure he’s not taking a shower,” Lucifer drawled.

“_He is not bathing! He brings me to attention before he bathes!_” There was no word for ‘wake’ in Enochian, of course, because angels didn’t sleep.

“_Does _he now?” drawled Lucifer. Aziraphale wanted to smite him for the double entendre. He stopped himself, but barely.

_“Watchdog cannot find him! I don’t know where he is,” _Aziraphale begged. _“Please, Lucifer, please help!”_

Lucifer looked down at the dog. Watchie was cowering and crying at Aziraphale’s feet. He frowned at him. “Stop speaking Enochian and you can come in,” he said. “I’ll wake the detective and we can start searching.”

_“I can’t!” _Aziraphale wailed.

“Yes, you can. I’ve seen you do this before. Snap out of it, and you can come inside, but I won’t have you scaring the detective and her spawn.”

Aziraphale stared at him, despairing. At his feet, Watchdog gave a strange bark, high and inquisitive. He looked down at her, met her eyes. She wagged her tail tentatively, but her eyes were still big and sad and worried. He’d left her llama back at Raguel’s house, he realized with some regret. She generally howled and cried when they forgot the llama, or collapsed into a miserable heap.

Llama. They’d bought that llama together, all three of them. Watchie had picked it out. Crowley hadn’t started to get exasperated with it until she began bringing it everywhere, like a security blanket. Farther back: he remembered the first llama he ever saw, outside the Garden. It was in a zoo, a poor sad looking creature, whose fur looked bedraggled rather than soft. He hadn’t liked the zoos much, back in the day; those small filthy cages, the animals’ hollow eyes. It had got better over the years.

One more thing. Llamas, llamas, llamas—there hadn’t been a single llama on Noah’s arc, but that was what you get when you flood the Fertile Crescent and totally ignore South America.

“It’s difficult,” Aziraphale said slowly, “When I am frightened.”

“Well, there you are then!” Lucifer said brightly. “Come in. Let’s discuss. _In English_, please, so the detective can understand.” He stood aside. Before Aziraphale could move, Watchdog barreled past them both.

Aziraphale exchanged a baffled look with Lucifer and followed.

Watchdog stood in the middle of what appeared to be Chloe’s sitting room, tipped her head back and bayed like a Hellhound. The lights flickered, but at least they didn’t spark.

“Oh, for dad’s sake, seriously?” Lucifer muttered.

There was a mad scramble and a yelp. An enormous German Shepherd came careening around the corner, took one look at Watchie, and pounced with a joyous cry.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said weakly, as the two dogs wrestled. Watchie’s heart wasn’t really in it though. Aziraphale could tell.

“That’s Hellhounds for you,” Lucifer drawled. “Coffee?”

“We need to find Crowley,” Aziraphale told him urgently.

“Shepherd! What are you doing, Shepherd!” Beatrice, wearing pyjamas festooned with burgers, held a stuffed toy by an arm and was rubbing her eye with her other hand. She walked into the room and blinked at Aziraphale. “What’re you doing here?”

“Lucifer, what on Earth?” Chloe Decker, in an oversized shirt, stomped down the stairs nearly in time with her daughter. “What’s all this noise—Aziraphale. Hello. What are you doing here?” Her echo of her child would have been amusing, if Aziraphale had been in any mood to be amused.

Aziraphale looked from one to the other and then said piteously, “Crowley’s gone. I don’t know where he is, and neither does Watchdog.”

“He’s probably in the shower, or he was, and he’s going to show up freaking out because _you’re_ gone,” muttered Lucifer.

“Lucifer,” Chloe scolded[4]. “Tell me what you remember, Azira—” She yawned, and Lucifer gazed at her adoringly, before turning to glare at Aziraphale like he had committed a great crime in waking her, “Aziraphale,” she finished.

“I woke and the bed was cold,” Aziraphale told her. It was an intimate detail, but he was too frightened to care. “Too cold, you understand; this was not ‘empty bed’ cold, it was ‘negative body heat’ cold. This has been happening after he—after he has one of these seizures—it felt all wrong—”

“Is Crowley sick?” asked Beatrice.

“No,” said Lucifer, “But there is something wrong. We’re investigating, spawn, not to worry.”

“What do you mean by ‘felt wrong’?” Chloe asked.

“It’s difficult to describe,” Aziraphale told her anxiously. “I have senses that you do not. This felt _wrong._”

“Unnatural,” Lucifer said, sharp.

Aziraphale nodded. At least Lucifer shared those senses. “The salted earth of Carthage,” he said. “The ghost of Alexandria. These things leave a mark. An absence. It was in my room this morning.” He fidgeted. “And Watchdog couldn’t find him. She woke me. Normally, she can sense him, because he is her master. Something terrible has happened to Crowley.”

“I can put out a BOLO for him, Aziraphale,” Chloe said gently. “Be On the Look Out,” she added, when his face must have shown confusion. “Every cop in LA will know his face. Okay?”

“What if Hastur’s found him?” he asked, anxious.

“The I shall find him, and throw Hastur into the ninth circle,” growled Lucifer. “I want Crowley as my new Left Hand. Volunteer basis only, of course. No Duke would dare disrespect my Left Hand.”

Aziraphale’s knowledge of Hell was limited, but even he knew that that was an incredible promotion.

“And I can call Maze,” Lucifer added. “To find him. She’s the best I have. Alright?”

Aziraphale took a shaky breath. He nodded.

“Good,” said Lucifer.

“Come with us to the precinct,” Chloe told Aziraphale gently. “We’ll get information faster there. Don’t worry, Aziraphale, we’ll find him.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He was out of options, especially if Watchie couldn’t find him. He tottered over to sit on Chloe’s sofa and collapsed there, a puppet without strings. He heard Lucifer call Mazikeen on his mobile phone; heard Chloe and Beatrice begin their morning routine, but clearly rushed. Watchdog came up to him and put her great head in his lap. He stroked her ears. Shepherd sniffed him curiously and sneezed.

The drive to Trixie’s school and then the precinct was a miserable blur.

Sitting listlessly in the car became sitting listlessly in a chair at the precinct. He was so frightened. He didn’t know what to do, he was so frightened. Take to the skies? Call for Crowley in increasingly archaic Enochian? Take to the streets, an avenging angel and a Hellhound, and hunt him down by brute force? That option seemed good, but surely someone would see him. Aziraphale would find him eventually, if he did that, but it was not a quick method and his sense of direction was terrible. At that point he might be too late.

Whatever that meant. The thought made him shiver.

Lucifer kicked the leg of his chair, jolting him back to the present. “Hey. Lord Byron. Maze found him.”

Aziraphale blinked. He blinked again and looked to Lucifer. “What?” he breathed.

“Mazikeen. She found him. And she found our newest crime scene too, so chop-chop.”

Aziraphale jumped to his feet, startling Watchdog. “Where?”

“Follow me.”

Lucifer didn’t lead Aziraphale to the carpark. He took him and Watchdog up, up and up a lift and then up three flights of stairs and out a fire door until they reached the top of the building. He rolled his shoulders as he strode out in the bright LA sunshine, shook out his wings. “You are not,” he said awkwardly, “The only one concerned for our resident Serpent of Eden. The detective will meet us at the crime scene.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, heartfelt. He shook out his wings, too. They looked dull and shabby next to Lucifer’s shining white. Aziraphale had brief moment of self-pity at the juxtaposition, that he never had the gumption and glory of the other angels, but he shook it off. It didn’t do to compare himself to Lucifer; Lucifer was long Fallen, and technically speaking, he was an archdemon, and not an angel at all.

Besides, Crowley loved Aziraphale’s cream-colored wings. That was enough.

Aziraphale grabbed Watchdog by the scruff of her neck and followed Lucifer’s swift dive: they plummeted from the roof of the building. Aziraphale remembered the maneuver in a flash: it was from the Rebellion. Down from a high surface and a hard bank left, it was a surprise attack. But Lucifer didn’t attack anyone. They swooped left and forward at a great speed, Lucifer flying point. Aziraphale clutched at Watchdog, and they arrowed across LA, back to the school. No human below saw them.

As the angel flies, it was not a terribly far distance, and they certainly beat Chloe and the rest of the LAPD, even the local ones. The scene wasn’t even sectioned off yet, but that was likely because Mazikeen was standing before it, teeth bared in a not-terribly-human smile, scaring away the security guards and campus police. Aziraphale and Lucifer touched down atop a building overlooking everything.

“Oh no,” breathed Aziraphale, eyes fixed on the form below. He set down his dog and didn’t wait for Lucifer’s commentary. He turned tail and _ran, _through the door on the roof and then down four flights of stairs, Watchdog hard on his heels.

Round and down the stairs, down two hallways and he was out the door, skidding to a stop about fifteen meters behind Mazikeen. She turned to glance at him, but otherwise didn’t comment. Behind him, he could hear Lucifer’s running footsteps.

Professor Dawkins was very, very dead. He’d clearly fallen, first to one knee and then to the side. Twenty paces behind him was Crowley.

Crowley was man-shaped, but just a little wrong. He was curled into a tight ball, double-jointed in all his bones. He was also very, very naked. Down his spine was a delicate spatter of emerald-green scales. He hadn’t quite finished the transformation before falling into lethargy. Aziraphale knelt beside him, carefully touched his shoulder. There was something--wrong. More wrong than the obvious. Something was blocking him, Aziraphale realized as Watchie nosed in at his side, sniffing at Crowley and crying. Something was blocking her, too. Crowley didn’t feel like a demon. Crowley didn’t feel like anything at all.

He was cold as ice, too, and Aziraphale could almost feel this thing that had stopped Watchie, that was blocking his own angelic senses. He didn’t know what it was, and that was very frightening. 

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale whispered. He ran a thumb carefully down some of the scales on his back. They would be more sensitive to Aziraphale’s warmth than his mammalian skin. “What happened?”

The grass behind him crunched. Lucifer knelt down besides Professor Dawkins. “He bit the professor,” he said.

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. “He would never!”

Lucifer rested two fingers – Aziraphale had a vague thought that he should be wearing gloves – in a V shape just above the professor’s ankle. Between his fingers, were a serpent’s puncture wounds.

“He’s too close,” Aziraphale told Lucifer, stroking through Crowley’s hair. Even that was freezing. “Crowley said half an hour, for a mid-sized mammal.” He looked down at his demon.

But maybe a, a deer was a mid-sized mammal. Humans were much smaller, in comparison. Crowley hadn’t specified. Even still—“He would have run farther, surely?”

“He’s a herpetology professor,” Lucifer said dryly. “He probably turned to investigate.”

That wasn’t a bad point, but—“But Crowley would _never_,” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s control was exquisite. He could nip at Aziraphale in play, he could play striking games, and never let loose a drop of venom. Islington was the first person he’d really poisoned in centuries. Never mind that it was against the law to kill a human, Crowley wouldn’t ever want to, especially not a kindly old professor that he barely knew. 

“Not willingly,” Lucifer said darkly, and Aziraphale shivered.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mazikeen said sharply. “You have to get him outta here before the LAPD shows up.”

Aziraphale caught Lucifer’s eye. They both silently agreed; that was not a bad point.

“Bring him inside,” Lucifer said, nodding to the building behind them. “Find a room. Someplace quiet. They’ll investigate. I’ll bring the detective to see him, after.”

It was as good an idea as any, and he was right: best to get Crowley away from the police, who would surely think him a suspect. Aziraphale caressed Crowley’s freezing shoulder and then leaned back, stood. He snapped a finger and his demon rose slowly off the ground.

He looked to the building behind them. “Watchdog,” he said, softly. “Find a room.”

\-----

[1] Normally Aziraphale chattered his way through a preening, or hummed songs, from the thirties or earlier, in his lovely bass hum. He was sometimes quiet if he was thinking about something, or worried about something. Anyway, he was tugging lightly at Crowley’s feathers exactly the way Crowley liked, and Crowley was going to bug him about the silence, he really was, but then Aziraphale took care of an itch and Crowley found himself a puddle on the chair.

[2] Except for Lucifer and maybe Mazikeen, but that was a recent development, and anyway, Crowley hadn’t asked them. He much preferred Aziraphale.

[3] It had taken him a little while to trust Trixie, too, but by then Crowley had a host of good memories of Aziraphale carding through his feathers with shivery, gentle fingers. After a week or so, after she promised not to tug, he’d let her fix them. He’d have never been able to do it without Aziraphale setting the foundation, though. He’d been able to feel Aziraphale’s pride in him from practically across the room, and it had sat warm in his stomach.

[4] Though she thought, in her heart of hearts, that he probably wasn’t wrong. Crowley and Aziraphale were lovely but they did tend to totally lose it if the other was in even the slightest bit of danger. Not that Lucifer was much better. Was it a celestial thing? Had to be a celestial thing. 


	16. Chapter 16

Watchdog whimpered and trotted off, back to the building, and Aziraphale followed her. The door opened when Aziraphale glared at it and, with much sniffing, Watchdog found an empty, sunlit classroom. That was all very well and good, but not the sort of place he needed. Aziraphale miracled a daybed and banished most of the desks. He sat himself at the head of the bed before settling Crowley down softly beside him. Poor Crowley was curled so small that they both fit very well. That was better.

Aziraphale set himself to conjuring as many blankets as possible, as well as pillows. Some of the blankets were even electric[1]. When he was satisfied, the bed was full to bursting with soft pillows, and Crowley was just a sad lump underneath it all. He set the electric blanket to Crowley’s preferred temperature[2], and then set himself to stoking his hair, worried. He didn’t wake, no matter how Aziraphale cajoled and caressed him. That strange blocking thing was there, too. Now that he was concentrating, he could feel it better; no wonder Watchie hadn’t been able to find Crowley. He set about to breaking it, but it was far more difficult than it should have been.

It felt Hellish. Like some sort of spell, but a remote one. Something with a mind of its own—an enchanted artifact, maybe? But Crowley wasn’t wearing anything to suggest such a thing. He wasn't even wearing a stitch of clothing!

Watchdog eventually hopped onto the foot of the bed and then laid down, head on Crowley’s bent thigh. She whimpered at Crowley, but only once, before settling.

Aziraphale worried at the spell or whatever it was. It was almost but not quite a living thing. He wrestled with it, tearing at it with metaphorical fingers. It didn’t budge. The room was very quiet.

He focused, his hand on Crowley’s freezing shoulder. His wings had manifested, though he wasn’t quite sure when, and the world went a little hazy. The thing he was focusing on, that all important thing went frayed at the edges and drifted away, as if on a cold breeze. He grasped for it, but there was nothing to hold. It was a—spell? No. There was another job to do. He had a Function. He knew he wasn’t guarding the Gates of Eden, but the job was equally important, if not more so. He was definitely Guarding something, something vital.

He’d slid to his feet, at some point. He knew this because when the door to the room opened, he gripped his sword, mantled, and said, _“Turn back. Thou mayst not enter.” _The sword flamed gently in his hand. He had no idea when he’d summoned it.

Ninth position, eighth—a swift, sweeping arc downward, an impressive move that was also practical and intimidating when your sword flamed. He settled into fourth position and slid a foot back, rested his weight upon it. Once upon a time, Aziraphale could slay a shadowbeast three times his size, all by himself. He knew how. In his heart he was a warrior.

The Fallen who stood beyond the doorway stared at him. It blinked, exaggerated in its human form, but its back went straight and alarmed. He watched it sweep out an arm, push the golden-haired human behind itself. It said something. It was English but English wasn’t—quite—processing at the moment.

_“Turn back. Thou mayst not enter,” _Aziraphale said again, calm as still waters. He kept his wings wide but unruffled--calm but strong, a gesture that warned: _do not trifle with me_. Something within him whimpered that this was wrong. He hated this. He hated soldiering. Didn’t he?

_“I do not seek to enter,” _said the Fallen. _“I seek to aid thy companion and get you out of this funk. Aziraphale. Do you know where you are?”_

It knew his name. Aziraphale swallowed.

He didn’t know where he was.

No, that was untrue. He was in a, a room with—there had been desks! And Crowley. And his dog. And—it was a, a university.

_“Training grounds,” _Aziraphale said, for there were no universities in Heaven.

“UCLA,” said the Fallen. No. It had a name. _He_ had a name. Said Lucifer.

“UCLA,” Aziraphale echoed, and his accent was thick and wrong, Enochian still heavy on his tongue. His stomach felt tight and uneasy and he tried again. “UCLA. Crowley went to Oxford,” he said, English, at last. “I got my doctorate of philosophy in Spain. You are Lucifer Morningstar, you own Lux and, and you may be the Devil but you are a _friend_.” He lowered his sword. “Oh _no_,” he whispered, wings drooping a little. “Oh no oh no—”

“You can have your impending nervous breakdown later,” Lucifer snapped. “Stand aside so we can see to Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s feet were rooted. He gripped his sword. He had no need for his sword, but he couldn’t seem to banish it.

“Please stand back for a moment,” he whispered. His feathers ruffled and unruffled uncertainly. 

“Aziraphale, something is gravely wrong with your demon,” growled Lucifer, frustrated. “Let me help.”

“Please stand back, I—I haven’t the control,” Aziraphale said, frantic.

“But you won’t hurt a human,” said the golden-haired woman, stepping out from behind Lucifer. What was her name?

“Detective!” hissed Lucifer, clearly terrified.

Chloe. Chloe Decker. That was her name. She was his friend, too. He tried to relax his wings, but found that he absolutely could not. The muscles of his wings shook with tension. 

“You won’t, will you?” she asked, braver than anything.

Aziraphale licked his lips. “No,” he whispered.

“Let me see him?” she asked urgently.

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. He nodded.

“Detec—_Chloe_—That’s not Aziraphale, that’s the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, that is a _Cherub_, do you have any _idea_ how dangerous—” Lucifer sputtered, so frightened his voice shook.

“It _is_ Aziraphale,” Chloe said, approaching him step by deliberate step. She walked through the door. “Cherub or not, he is my friend.” She came to a stop in front of him. “It’s alright. I know you’re feeling—lost. It’s okay. I found you.” She rested her hand on his wrist, well within slashing range of his wings, terribly brave. She pushed his arm down, and with it, his sword. The flame on the blade went out.

“I don’t know where I am,” Aziraphale told her plaintively.

“Can you give me three more things?” Chloe asked him, so gentle.

“I met you a few years ago,” Aziraphale told her dutifully. “A murder; Raguel was a suspect. I found Raguel wandering in Brazil in 1900, lost. He was the second member of Angel Network. The first was—was—Islington, given to me as a charge in the early BCs after it sank Atlantis. London grew around its prison. And then it partnered with Naomi, and Naomi _did_ this to me.” The last was loud, distressed.

“But you beat her,” Chloe told him. “You’re beating her right now, Aziraphale, you’re winning. Where are you?”

“Crowley is injured and I still don’t know,” Aziraphale said, panicked.

“Yes you do. Lucifer told you a few minutes ago. Come on.” She shook his arm gently.

“University,” Aziraphale said at last. “There’s been a murder. That nice professor.” And he remembered. His sword disappeared back into the ether; finally, he folded his wings against his back. “UCLA.”

“There.” She smiled at him. “Can I see him? Or can Lucifer?”

Aziraphale swallowed. He still didn’t want to let Lucifer near, but Lucifer probably knew the best way to help Crowley. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, to both. I’m—I’m—sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Show me.” She tilted her head to Lucifer[3], beckoning.

Aziraphale went back to the daybed and pulled back the blankets. “We found him with the professor,” he said softly. “Cold as ice. And he’s caught mid-transformation, look.” He showed her the scales on Crowley’s back. “There’s something blocking him, too, since Watchdog couldn’t find him. He feels—wrong. Like there’s something exerting its Will on him and I can’t undo it. There was a bite on the Professor’s ankle. Crowley’s venom is incredibly potent.” He ran his thumb up and down the back of Crowley’s neck, petting the scales.

“There you are,” Chloe smiled at him. Aziraphale smiled back weakly. He shuffled his wings, settling a little. 

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Lucifer. He slipped between Aziraphale and Chloe, still a little protective. It made Aziraphale's feathers ruffle, but he let him do it. Poor fellow was just looking out for his human, Aziraphale told himself, but it hurt his heart, that he was the most dangerous creature in this room. “Half-transformed…” Lucifer shook his head, rested a hand over Crowley’s exposed side. “He does feel wrong. It’s Hellish—familiar—” He frowned. 

“Is there a way to get a cast of his teeth?” Chloe asked, when Lucifer stayed silent. “So Ella can compare to the wound?”

“No need,” Aziraphale sighed. “A sample of his venom will do. Crowley’s is unique.”

Chloe nodded. “Okay.”

“He gets a full pardon,” Lucifer said slowly, eyes falling shut, focusing on whatever was hurting Crowley. “If he killed that man, he did not do it deliberately. He is being manipulated and there is nothing I hate more,” he growled, “than manipulation.” His hand shook a little.

“The Almighty might not be so kind,” Aziraphale whispered. “Raguel might still come for him.”

“If Raguel comes for him, get him to me,” Lucifer said flatly, eyes still closed. “I will take him to Hell, where he’ll be safe from our wretched Father.”

That was…. incredibly generous. “Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Lucifer said. “Hopefully it won’t come to that."

Aziraphale prayed to the Lady God, to Him Above, that it wouldn’t come to that.

Lucifer pulled his hand away and opened his eyes, scowling. “I can’t break it from here either, whatever it is, not without the anchor. But I know it. It’s definitely Hellish. It belongs to me. It feels like an artifact.”

“That’s what I thought too,” murmured Aziraphale.

“If we can find it, I can break its hold,” said Lucifer. “Or it’ll wear off. Stuff like this is temporary. It’ll wear off with time.”

“Like—the way the seizures wore off,” murmured Aziraphale.

“Yes,” said Lucifer. “It was the same—thing, I imagine. But concentrated.”

Neither of them were able to sense it before, really, Aziraphale realized, heat sinking. It was easier to trace something pure. Before it had been—strangely diluted. Like Crowley was target this time, instead of being collateral damage. It was not a good thought. 

“What do we do now?” he asked Chloe.

“Let me see the rest of him,” Chloe said. “Clues. Please.”

Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to move away, but he let Chloe fold back the blankets. It was difficult, but he managed.

Crowley was still naked, still curled in the smallest ball. There was dirt on his belly, though, and his chest and his neck, like he’d been slithering. Scales dotted his body, and he didn’t shiver, like a human would, but he seemed to curl tighter.

Chloe searched him and searched him, gently and considerately. It took a short while, but she was respectful, and Aziraphale appreciated it. She took particular interest in Crowley's lips and teeth, likely looking for blood. It made Aziraphale feel tense and deeply uncomfortable. He fidgeted his wings. Lucifer glanced at him, clearly reading the discomfort in his body language. 

Abruptly, Watchdog looked up from where she'd been curled at the foot of the bed. She growled, bearing her teeth. Her eyes fixed on the door. 

Everyone looked up.

Raguel was standing in the threshold of the classroom. He looked frankly dapper, in a suit and an overcoat as well as a hat. Aziraphale had never seen him so put together, and he had never hated the sight of him quite like he did in this moment. He groped for his sword, heart in his throat[4].

Lucifer stepped in front of the bed. He shook out his great white wings and spread them in a protective gesture. Aziraphale was—absurdly touched. “He was manipulated,” he growled.

“I’m actually here for Chloe,” said Raguel, light and sane. He wasn’t glowing even a little.

Lucifer’s wings bristled[5].

“I’ve tracked the ghoul,” Raguel added casually.

Chloe blinked. “You—have.”

“Yes. You gave me a task. It’s here, at UCLA, and it’s close. It’s been feeding off the bodies of this killer, circling like a vulture, but it couldn’t eat this body. So, it’s hungry. If it’s going to strike, it’ll strike now.”

“How do you know this?” Chloe said.

“You told me to be a d-detective again,” Raguel said, and he faltered a little. “So I did. The last two victims were—well, eaten, and they were found at UCLA, around various biology buildings. The ghoul left footprints, you know. Well—you probably don’t, they were in the grass and too faint for human eyes, but I saw them. I’m certain it was the ghoul, and not the killer; the angle of approach is all wrong, far too casual, and if the victims were alive, they would have seen it coming. This victim had no bite marks. He wasn’t eaten. Something’s changed, and I’m certain the ghoul is hungry.”

“Crowley’s venom would render the body indigestible,” Lucifer said. He still hadn’t folded his wings[6]. “It’s demonic by nature. It will harm anyone who touches it.”

“No creature in its right mind will eat that body,” Aziraphale agreed softly.

“Okay, but do we have any leads? Raguel?” Chloe asked.

“It’ll be here. Close to the killer,” Raguel said. “I don’t know who the killer is. The ghoul is taking the form of the first victim, I believe, but he’s wearing a woman’s sweater, black and fuzzy.”

“So we’re looking for Tommy in a fuzzy sweater,” Lucifer said.

Raguel shrugged. “I’ve focused on the monster, not the men.”

“I can put out a BOLO for Tommy,” Chloe said.

“Don’t,” sighed Aziraphale. “It is fast and hungry and moreover, it can shift its shape. At best that will be pointless, and at worst it will get those policemen and women killed.”

“I can find it,” said Raguel gravely. “I’m certain of it. I know it’s on this campus, but I need to know about the killer. I’m close. Today, now, it’ll be with the killer. It might be scoping out the killer's next victim, but more likely it'll be with the killer.”

Lucifer regarded Raguel for a long, silent moment. “You have it?” he said, at last. There was a strange weight to his words, a weight that somehow recalled Saraquael, so long ago.

“I have it,” Raguel said, rough and gravely and certain.

Lucifer nodded. He folded his wings, at last[7]. “Like a dog with a bone,” he told Chloe. “He won’t give up. If he has the scent, he has it. He’ll get the ghoul. It’s his Function.”

He wasn’t wrong. Aziraphale had never seen Raguel looking so confident, but then, Raguel was the world’s first detective, after all. He knew what he was doing.

“How can I help?” Chloe asked.

“Your suspect list,” Raguel said. “Who are your suspects? The ghoul will be near them. Who are you going to interview next?”

“The TA,” Chloe answered immediately. “All three victims knew her. Clara Jefferies even said that she was Laura Hershel’s enemy. She was on the rattlesnake project with Tommy Barnes and worked with the professor. I planned to interview her this morning, but the professor was killed.”

“Name?” asked Raguel.

“Marcy Carmichael,” said Chloe. 

“Well done,” said Raguel, and for a moment he wasn’t the mournful angel who lost his way, half mad and wingless; he was the First Detective and the Vengeance of the Lord, an archangel once more. Chloe stood up a little straighter, likely on instinct. Even Lucifer looked proud of her, at the complement. “She is a likely suspect, and if nothing else, she will be a target for the ghoul. She’s in the same circle. If we investigate her, I might find evidence of the ghoul nearby. If not, we can go to the next on your list.”

“Then let’s go,” Lucifer said.

“I’m not leaving Crowley,” whispered Aziraphale. “I won’t.”

“We’ve a killer to catch, Aziraphale,” Lucifer said.

“I won’t leave him,” Aziraphale said, unyielding.

“Of course you won’t,” Lucifer sighed, rolling his eyes[8]. “Did it occur to you that you have a Hellhound on that bed? Watchdog can guard him better than you ever could. We can catch the culprit.”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw and sat himself back on the bed, glaring. He ruffled his feathers. Watchdog pricked her ears at her name, but she also huffed, not even lifting her head.

“Stay, then,” Chloe told him. “Watch over him. Come find us when he wakes up, okay?”

Aziraphale felt his shoulders relax. “Very well.”

“Detective?” Lucifer blurted.

“Let’s go,” said Chloe, and pulled him toward Raguel[9]. The three of them left, unceremonious.

The classroom went very quiet, for a very long time. Aziraphale stood, and he Guarded, and the world faded away.

___________

[1] It didn’t really occur to Aziraphale that an electric blanket might need batteries, or might need to be plugged in, so these blankets needed neither.

[2] Way Too Hot.

[3] Lucifer was kind of frozen on the spot. It took him a bit to unfreeze. She was completely, utterly magnificent. Look at that. Look what she did, how gracefully, how elegantly she did that. She could soften even Cherub-Aziraphale, because she was perfect and wonderful and he loved her so much his heart constricted. He wanted to lie at her feet and thrum. He was the luckiest Devil alive.

[4] His sword was not corporeal. Raguel was a friend, he was himself enough to know that, and though he despised the sight of him in that threshold, he still didn’t really _want_ to summon the blasted thing, hoping for Raguel's good intentions, still. He absolutely would attack if Raguel started for Crowley, without question or hesitation, but it would hurt him to do it. Raguel hadn't moved and he didn't look aggressive, so Aziraphale dithered. The sword did not appear because of his indecisiveness, so mostly he just looked like an idiot.

[5] His vision went a little red, and he shifted his feet into a more aggressive fighting stance. _Over his dead body!_

[6] If this was some sort of trick and Raguel wanted Chloe for some, some terrible Vengeance—well. Lucifer flexed his sharpened feathers. Over. His. Dead. Body.

[7] Raguel didn’t lie about his Function. He didn’t want to smite Chloe. Lucifer’s heart pounded with relief, even though technically his heart was utterly unnecessary, being a Being of Celestial Origin and Infernal Allegiance (mostly).

[8]Ugh, these two. He remembered Crowley wailing and refusing to leave Aziraphale when his wing had been masticated by a Leviathan. At least the feeling was mutual, as annoying as it was.

[9] Aziraphale would not move. She knew this. There was no point in trying, and it would waste time. But they did have a killer to catch, and it was urgent. He’d be alright. She hoped.


	17. Chapter 17

Sunlight played on the floor of the room in rectangles, shining through the windows. He watched the rectangles move slowly across the linoleum. Time passed, sickly slow, and Crowley did not wake. But Aziraphale was patient, and he knew how to defend something valuable. He waited. Those sun-shapes slid a little farther across the floor. He watched them, idle, alert. No one came to find them.

And then at long last Crowley groaned as if in pain. Aziraphale watched him, a little detached, as the scales flickered across his skin. He shrank down to a snake, then up to a man, clearly confused. Then he coughed, unhappy, and shrank into a snake again. Watchdog whined and wagged her tail.

“Cold,” he whispered.

Aziraphale snapped out of it.

“My dear boy!” he lunged forward and ran the palm of his hand over Crowley’s little green head, down his long thin body. “Crowley, what happened?”

“Did I eat something?” Crowley asked plaintively. He lifted his head. “Aziraphale? It tastes like I bit something warm-blooded.” He put his little chin in Aziraphale’s palm and gazed up at him with his sweet golden eyes, trusting.

“I think you did, my dear,” Aziraphale said, low. “Can I pick you up?”

Crowley gave him a weird look. “You don’t need to ask,” he said, shaky. “You know you can. You always can. What happened, that you’re asking?”

Watchdog whimpered again. Aziraphale scooped Crowley up and wound him carefully around his wrist.

“You don’t want to know, my dear,” Aziraphale said, fury kindling and catching like fire at the base of his throat. “Come along, Watchdog. We have a killer to find, and a ghoul to destroy, and I strongly suspect that _this is connected**[1]**._”

“Thiss?” asked Crowley, confused.

Watchdog jumped off the bed and stood to attention.

“Find Lucifer,” Aziraphale told her. He had finally Lost His Patience.

He had lost his patience with whatever was harming his Crowley. He had lost his patience with this case, with Lucifer, and the LAPD. And, finally, he had lost his patience with Naomi’s _bloody mind games, _and he was finished playing by her rules.

He reached for that Cherub inside him, instead of blocking it. He was bloody tired of blocking it, and he had a bloody monster to slay, or a human to slay, because this reeked of the twisted games of humanity. Anyway, being a Cherub wasn’t some special state of being. It was just Aziraphale. He remembered what it was like, to be both himself and a Cherub, and he grasped for Naomi’s programming; he stopped pushing it down and stopped walling it off and separating it in his mind. He was angry enough to reach for the power that she had offered. There was revenge to be had, and someone, somewhere deserved a smiting. Being a Cherub would help with that, he thought viciously, and damn the consequences.

He threw open the metaphorical gates, and he let the floodwaters in.

Watchdog bared her teeth. As always, she threw back her head and bayed, but this time she was angry, too. The fluorescent lightbulbs in the classroom cracked and sputtered out sparks. Some of the remaining wooden student chairs simply combusted, fire licking up their legs and onto their desktops. Aziraphale stood straight and tall, and that thing, that creature Naomi wanted him to be, swamped him. 

He was braced for it. He had months and months of holding tight to his identity, of remembering; his memories were rock solid. He knew where he was, and that Crowley was awake and alright, though he had been under some sort of—spell, or geas, or something terrible. He was done being afraid.

Naomi’s programming roared, a whirling chaos of Nightmare World and its rules and its brutality. There was a long moment where the noise reached a crescendo and stayed there. The world faded, and the urge to go to that place, that terrible place, was strong. They needed him there. I am Aziraphale, he thought softly, against the noise. I stand in UCLA, he thought, louder. My bookshop is in London, he shouted over the beckoning din, I have a Ghoul and a murderer to catch, and I am _incredibly angry. _

Nightmare World washed out of his head like the tide.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, frightened, from his wrist. “What happened? Angel?” A little sluggish, he wound up Aziraphale’s arm, toward his customary spot around his neck.

Watchdog had waited for him to be ready. When she saw that he was, she put her head down and raced out of the room. Aziraphale followed on her heels, and he didn’t answer Crowley. He ran after her at a steady lope, wings tucked at his back. It was not a human gait. Once, long ago, he and his compatriots had run like this, the way human soldiers marched: instep, and very fast. He easily kept pace with his Hellhound on the hunt. The other humans in the building didn’t see him, or the dog.

Crowley hunkered down against his neck, but he didn’t even try to stop Aziraphale. He didn’t even ask what had happened[2]. He was cool against Aziraphale’s skin, and he clung on, frightened.

Aziraphale followed Watchdog at full speed out of the building and onto the green outside. They dashed past the crime scene, invisible[3]. They dashed across campus, even, too fast for any human to keep up. Lucifer, Raguel and Chloe had traveled quite far, in the hours that Crowley had remained unconscious. Aziraphale didn’t think on it, really. He just followed his dog.

Small red lights, like coals, had started to glow underneath his dog’s fur. It wasn’t anything overt; just in little glimmers as she moved, peeking between the strands like the sun through summer’s foliage. She was quite angry too, after all. The pads of her feet left small burns in the grass, rather more Hellish than she usually was. It was no matter, Aziraphale thought coolly. They would get to the bottom of this, soon enough. 

They ran together, on the hunt. UCLA was a very large campus, after all.

They found Lucifer Morningstar in a library. Aziraphale was fairly certain it was a library, in that there were definitely books, and old ones, too. But Lucifer, Raguel and Chloe were not by the front desk, where Watchdog snarled at a cowering librarian, nor were they in the stacks. No – Lucifer Morningstar and Chloe Decker were buried somewhere in a basement amongst the storage of microfilm: it was a long, long, long hall, nearly a warehouse, with shelves and shelves of closed, sideways drawers, beige, and linoleum flooring. Together, they’d cornered a young woman wearing a silver circlet on her head. Raguel was nowhere to be seen.

“Stay back!” she was shouting. “I can hurt you—I can make them hurt you. The venom will kill you in minutes, if I tell it to. Stay back!”

Crowley went rigid around Aziraphale’s neck, and he went cold as ice, and Aziraphale was finished.

He flared his wings, and he marched right past Watchdog, past Chloe, past Lucifer, and past the eight rattlesnakes scattered about the floor. One struck at him. It connected, and he did not care.

Rattlesnakes. _Honestly_. He slept in in the same bed as the most venomous creature on Earth, held him close and safe at night.

“No,” Crowley whispered against his throat, abruptly. He sounded robotic, but as he spoke terror leaked through. “No. Never. No, I won’t. I don’t care; kill me. I’d rather die. Never. Never, never, never—”

She had command of him and was telling him to strike. It was not difficult to deduce. It was what Aziraphale would do, in her position. Crowley’s horrified resistance registered as something to be cherished, but dimly. Aziraphale felt—himself, but younger, all that training, the legions of Cherubim drilling instep, fresh in his mind. He was definitely at UCLA, and he was also definitely a soldier, and this _human _was hurting someone he was supposed to protect. Aziraphale strode up to her, grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the long, smooth set of shelves. The sound of it echoed and reverberated down the long, long hall.

Lucifer’s shout registered behind him, but he flared his wings, mantling around his prey[4]. The shout died down.

She gasped hard against his fingers and Crowley went lax with relief.

“Do you know who I am?” Aziraphale asked her pleasantly. Watchdog stood with one shoulder to the shelves, and the other a small distance from the blades of Aziraphale’s wings. Her eyes were fixed on the girl, but she did not growl[5].

“You—you—wings—” she gasped. He loosened his hold so she could breathe, but not by much.

“Yes, there is that, but that is not what I asked you. Do you know who I am?”

“Angel?” she wheezed.

“Yes. Special. In fact, I am the only angel permitted to kill a human without a direct Divine order in all of Creation. Now please tell me, before I exercise this right, how are you controlling the snakes?”

“She bit you,” gasped the woman. Presumably she meant the rattlesnake.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “But I am an angel, do keep up; I am quite cross. _How are you controlling them_?”

Her eyes were huge and terrified and Aziraphale felt not one ounce of sympathy. “How!” he demanded again, and it was nearly a shout.

“The tiara!” she wailed. “Mom’s tiara! She stole it and I stole it and I can hear the snakes, can make their venom work faster—”

He looked to her brown curls. There was indeed a silver circlet perched on her head. It was an ouroboros, a snake that ate its tail. He had seen it before, he was quite certain, but at the moment he didn’t quite care. With his other hand, he plucked it from her head and flung it like a frisbee down the hall [6].

A scuffling sound: Watchdog chased it like it was a game of fetch. Behind the fading scratch of her claws on the linoleum, the sound of rattles filled the room.

“Crowley, dear, please tell them not to be alarmed; we’re clearing this up right now,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley raised his head sluggishly from Aziraphale’s shoulder. He was very cold. He flicked his tongue, confused, before swinging his little head around. Aziraphale held the young woman’s eyes as Crowley hissed. The rattling died down.

Aziraphale stepped back, and the girl slumped against the shelves. He rotated his wrist, and his sword appeared in his hand. It flamed like a bar of magnesium at his command. He watched the girl, whose eyes had gone round with terror and filled with tears. There was shouting behind him, which he dimly recognized as Lucifer, but it mostly didn’t register.

“Ssstop,” said Crowley, breathless. “Aziraphale, you need to stop.”

“No. I really don’t,” Aziraphale replied mildly.

“Yes, you really do. It was a demonic circlet, angel. Silver ouroboros. It’s Asteroth’s, remember? I’d know that thing anywhere. It fell to the ground when Rags killed him. She’s just as much a victim as I am.”

“The divine only amplifies desire that is already there,” Aziraphale said, still mild, watching the girl. She deserved to be dead, and slowly. That was how divine retribution _worked_.

“Yeah, but there’s amplifying and there’s _amplifying!_ There’s wanting a hamburger and then there’s going out and slaughtering three hundred of cows for their meat in the night; that’s what divine and demonic things do, they blow it all out of proportion. You know this. She’s a grad student; she’s filled with frustration. That’s like, the nature of being a grad student[7]. Come on. Come back to me, angel.”

She had killed three people. She took their phones, denied their cries for help, and then she made the snake venom kill them _faster, _so they could not be saved by passerby. More importantly, she’d hurt his Crowley. Her hair was mussed from the circlet and she was too frightened to speak. She looked ill. Aziraphale felt no pity, and no disgust. Human. Only human. And one who had exhibited hubris, who had risen beyond her station. Hubris was to be punished.

“Please,” said Crowley, now desperate. His breath came short, and of course snakes could not cry, but those quick breaths meant terror, and sounded like sobbing. “Please, Aziraphale. Give her to Lucifer. Put down your sword, I don’t know what’s hap-happening to you, please stand down.”

Cherubim didn’t listen to serpents. But Aziraphale wasn’t just any Cherub. 

He stepped back.

“A serpent just saved your life,” he told her, still mild. “The Serpent, in fact. Do be kinder to them, in the future.”

He stood aside.

And there was Chloe Decker, Queen of Hell, with her handcuffs, despite Lucifer’s panicked shout. “Marcy Carmichael, you are under arrest for—”

_“Got you!” _Raguel. He wrenched open one of the microfilm drawers.

In whirling dervish of movement, Tommy Barns burst out.

Or rather, the ghoul who looked like Tommy Barns. He wore a black, fuzzy jumper, incongruous with his wild eyes. He lunged at Raguel, so fast he was almost a blur. Raguel ducked out of the way, just a little too slow. The creature slammed him up against a shelf with a vicious, inhuman snarl.

“You fucked up my meal ticket,” it spat furiously. It struck him again, hard, in the side of the face, and Raguel’s skull cracked against the shelf behind him. He slid down, slowly, and the ghoul whirled away, racing, impossibly fast footsteps down the hall.

Watchdog lunged after it. She leaped and dug her claws into the ghoul’s back, hard enough to tear its jumper and draw blood, snarling around the silver circlet. He staggered, off balance, and fell face-first to the floor, trying to break free.

Watchdog made it an easy task, really. Aziraphale strolled up to the prone ghoul, held fast by his snarling, abruptly vicious Hellhound. He took off the ghoul’s head with one easy swing of his sword. Crowley pressed against his neck, breathing hard.

Watchdog hopped off the ghoul, now quite dead, and circled around to lean on Aziraphale’s thigh, panting. There was blood on her paws from where she’d torn through the jumper and on the circlet in her mouth. He patted her.

Raguel staggered up to stand beside him, flinching a little. He was definitely injured; his eye was bruised, his hair was mussed, and there was blood on the back of his head. He swayed a little too, as if dizzy. Apparently Nightmare World monsters moved fast, and they could hurt angels. That was terrible. 

He met Aziraphale’s eye. “Well done,” he said, and bent down. He laid three fingers on the still-twitching body’s shoulders, and it burned bright, bright, bright. Too bright to look at; Aziraphale closed his eyes and looked away. He put up a hand to shield Crowley, too. Watchdog whimpered and hid her face against Aziraphale’s side. The body, and the rolling head, blazed like silver suns, and burned away, not even a smear on the floor to mark their passing.

Good.

Raguel gave a sick giggle. He wobbled. Aziraphale steadied him.

“Please can we go home,” Crowley whispered into the abrupt silence, “Please angel, please.”

Aziraphale looked down at him, coiled tight around his neck and shoulder and so upset his breaths came in heaving puffs, a serpent’s version of shaking. He put the sword away into the ether and reached up to stroke his little nose. Crowley butted against his fingers, desperate.

“Do—do you remember me?” he asked, small voiced.

Aziraphale looked at him, surprised. “You’re my Crowley. My companion for six thousand years. We stopped the apocalypse. I love you. You saved my sanity, and you keep saving it; my dear there is no _forgetting_ you.”

Crowley rested his little serpentine forehead against Aziraphale’s fingers and breathed hard. “Don’t forget,” he said, “Don’t forget.”

“Never,” Aziraphale promised him, taken aback.

“Aziraphale.” Lucifer’s voice was grave. He turned.

Lucifer strode up to him, but he wasn’t mantling or doing anything defensive. He was blocking Chloe and the woman—Marcy Carmichael, Aziraphale thought—from view, a little, likely an unconscious protective gesture. “Are you in there?”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, baffled. He scratched under Crowley’s little chin, confused as to why everyone was so worried. Surely he’d just fixed it, hadn’t he? They’d gotten the culprit and the ghoul, and they’d stopped this nonsense with the snakes. 

“No,” Lucifer said, frowning, “No, you’re different. That was different. Spread your wings.”

“Rather forward,” Aziraphale sniffed, and Crowley gave a hysterical snap of laughter from his shoulders. 

“Angels self-actualize,” Lucifer said.

“I am aware.”

“Good, now _spread your wings, _you insufferable creature.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Why?”

“Oh, he’s right,” Crowley breathed. “Just do it, just do it.”

Aziraphale turned himself sideways in the long hall, for his wingspan was quite large. He spread them, stretching out the primaries, the secondaries, the coverts.

“Mmm-hm,” said Lucifer, over Chloe’s awed sound and Marcy’s gasp. “I suspected as much. How many?”

“Two,” Aziraphale said, because Lucifer was clearly stupid. They’d—they’d removed the others with his demotion— it had hurt a great deal; it was quite memorable—

“Four,” whispered Crowley. He huffed out a disbelieving breath. “Four. You’re a Cherub again, angel.” He sounded frightened, and just a little awed. “That’s why you’re—why you’re doing this, you’re _Guarding, _aren’t you? You said you remembered me. You were certain. Where are we, angel?”

“UCLA,” Aziraphale told him, bewildered. “I’m still me, Crowley.”

“Not Eden? You’re _sure_?” Crowley said, frantic.

“Eden is long gone, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “My city was Mari. Yours was Thonis. We live in London. We share it; it’s ours. I know who I am.” Alarm was scratching at his throat. Four wings? Four?

He folded one pair, the larger pair, his forewings. The second set was smaller, the first two primaries on either side bladed. He stared at those primaries in wonder. They’d cut them off. He hadn’t been pinioned; Sandalphon had cut them off entirely at the shoulder joint. It had hurt. He had _screamed; _he’d cracked the glass in the Sixth Sphere with his screams. The crack was still there. Gabriel liked to remind him that it was still there, that Aziraphale had been unable to keep quiet like a soldier. He’d felt off balance for the entire first decade he’d spent on Earth, after the Garden, without the other pair of wings. It was punishment. He had not been a very good Guardian. 

They were back. Impossible.

“Angel?” asked Crowley.

“How?” Aziraphale said weakly.

“Angels self-actualize,” Lucifer drawled, and Aziraphale wanted to say, _but I’m NOT a Cherub!_ “Now put them away; we have to bring Marcy here in for questioning.”

Marcy whimpered in Chloe’s grip.

“Crowley,” Chloe said. “Can you do something about the rattlesnakes? I don’t want to leave them in here.”

“Don’t touch the diadem,” Lucifer told Chloe sharply[8]. He lunged for Watchdog, but Watchdog growled and evaded him, brave pup, the diadem gripped tightly in her teeth.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Chloe said[9].

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Yeah.” He took a deep breath and, with a final, gentle squeeze, he slipped down Aziraphale’s arm. Aziraphale extended his hand, let Crowley slip to his fingers, coil, and leap; he stood on his own feet, a man again. He wore clothes, but no sunglasses.

He looked deep into Aziraphale’s eyes. “Okay?” he asked anxiously.

Aziraphale nodded. He reached out and cupped his cheek. “I’m okay. Are you?”

Crowley huffed a laugh and leaned into Aziraphale’s palm. “That remains to be seen.” He turned, kissed his palm, and stepped away. “Okay. Hey, friends, what do you ssssay we get out of here, huh?”

Aziraphale watched the snakes slip from their various hiding places under the shelves and over to Crowley, up his arms, around his neck and in his shirt.

“You should put those away.” Raguel tapped lightly on the wrist of on Aziraphale’s right hindwing. Strange feeling; he hadn’t had a hindwing in millennia. He jumped and shied a little, not liking the touch, not there, where the last memory was the blood and violence of their removal.

“They’re conspicuous,” Raguel said, madness and envy lurking in his eyes. The bruise around the left one was darkening. “And the police will see them. You’ve already traumatized one human.” He nodded to Marcy.

Aziraphale looked at her again. He rather had, hadn’t he? Gulping, he tucked his wings, all of them, away. “I nearly killed her, didn’t I?” he asked, horrified.

“Mm-hmm,” said Raguel. He shrugged, not really seeing a problem. Blood stained his collar.

Aziraphale’s breath abruptly came short. “But I nearly _killed her,_” he blurted.

“Yep,” said Crowley. He trotted up to him, covered with snakes. “But I stopped you, didn’t I?” He looked tentatively proud, but he shied from Aziraphale, a little, like he was afraid.

“Yes,” Aziraphale told him, wretched. “I love you. Thank you. I won’t _hurt_ you,” he blurted. “I’m still me. I’m still _me_, Crowley.” 

Crowley looked at him, still uncertain, but clearly wanting to believe him. “Yeah,” he murmured, unconvinced.

“Come on,” Crowley added, “We have a criminal to take to the Proper Authorities. Watchdog!” he called, and his dog loped up to him, grinning hugely around the diadem. “Don’t you let go of that,” he said. “Come on!”

He took Aziraphale’s hand as they followed Chloe and Lucifer out the door, so that was something, at least.

_______

[1] Crowley was no rattlesnake, no mortal creature, and nobody’s plaything. Now that he had become part of this—this monster’s murder spree, Aziraphale was certain of the connection. He was bloody furious.

[2] That warm blood, mammal taste—Crowley smacked his jaws unhappily and huddled into Aziraphale’s warm neck. The roots of his fangs ached like he’d used them and bitten something that had struggled. He didn’t usually bite with his fangs. This all pointed to something Very Bad Indeed. Aziraphale was so angry. He didn’t think he’d ever seen him this angry. Something terrible had definitely happened, it had definitely involved Crowley, and he definitely did not want to know.

[3] Maze saw them. She rolled her eyes. Dramatic much. She debated about getting involved for like a hot second and then decided that she had better things to do than wrangling crazy angels.

[4] Lucifer backed off, instinctively. He pulled Chloe with him as well, and even Raguel, sniffing around in some weird corner somewhere, hunkered down. Mantling had a great many reasons and meanings; this was _prey _and _mine _and _I have claws. _Lucifer could defeat Aziraphale in a fight. He was very certain, but it would cost him, and he would come out injured in the end. With Chloe standing there, human and vulnerable, it was not worth the risk.

[5] Confusing. The human hurt Master Crowley, but she loved humans, and Aziraphale was attacking?? Because the human hurt the Master?? She must be bad but she was human??? It didn’t quite compute.

[6] It hit Chloe Decker’s shoulder, and she caught it reflexively before it fell. Lucifer sucked in a breath, and they met eyes for a terrifying moment, as Chloe gripped the diadem. One second passed, two, in paralyzed silence. Then she dropped it, horrified, and the spell was broken. Watchdog frolicked up to her and scooped it up.

Lucifer rushed over. “Alright? Are you alright?”

“Lucifer, I’m fine—”

“No—no strange, murderous urges--?”

“No, of course not! I’m fine. Lucifer, I’m fine.”

It was just a second, Lucifer reasoned. He touched her shoulder, where it had hit. She wasn’t even bruised, but he worried, still, watching Watchdog trot away with that cursed diadem. That was—deeply strange. Any regular human would be desiring to possess the diadem, but Chloe—didn’t seem to be. Strange, strange, strange. He inspected her palms, worried, before pressing kisses there while she hissed at him half-heartedly that that this was not the appropriate time. Aziraphale saw none of this, of course. He was a bit preoccupied with murderous rage.

[7] And that was…. partly Crowley’s fault but look screwing with how graduate school worked had been a fun project, okay, and he hadn’t ever expected anyone to start stealing demonic artifacts!

[8] More sharply than he intended, really, but that had seriously freaked him out, before. She seemed alright, though. He needed to get her home, take of off her clothes, and do a more thorough investigation, obviously. Also, he wanted to curl up under her chin. This case had been very alarming, because the Cherubim were very alarming, especially Cherubim with flaming swords that close to his humans. Awful. 

[9] Because she was ALSO FREAKED OUT. What if she went crazy from touching it before? Oh god. Oh god. Focus on the case, Chloe. Focus.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MANY MANY MANY THANKS TO [BATARD_LOAF ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/batard_loaf/pseuds/batard_loaf) FOR ALL HER HELP. I had some plotting issues way back when, and she talked me through some of them; it's discussed in this chapter. 
> 
> LOAFY YOU'RE A STAR!!

“So let me be certain that I understand,” Dr. Linda Martin said as Aziraphale sat, wretched and dejected on her sofa with his head in her hands, in a session as promised. “Naomi brainwashed you; she tried to wipe you clean, into the Cherub you once were. You’ve been on the mend for months, with Crowley’s help, and you nearly had it, but the stress of this case, and of Crowley being ill, made you relapse. When you attacked Marcy Carmichael, with clear and sound mind, you believe you somehow took Naomi’s curse and twisted it into something useful to you, and you became so convinced you reverted yourself back into a Cherub on your own, and now Crowley is frightened of you.”

Aziraphale nodded into his hands. “I don’t know what to do,” he said miserably.

“Do you feel the urge to hurt humans,” Linda said cautiously. “Or otherwise manipulate us.”

“No! Never!” Aziraphale cried, looking up. “I’m still me, Dr. Martin! The thing Naomi wanted me to be had no care for human life, but that’s not _me_. I simply—have an extra set of wings and an overwhelming desire to guard my bookshop and Crowley. Oh, dear.” He slumped again and stared at his palms.

“And manipulation is against the rules,” Linda said.

“Very much so,” Aziraphale said. “Very much so. Killing humans is against the rules for everyone but me; I have only done it three times over the entire course of human history. One was war, and two in self-defense. I am not proud of my behavior with Marcy Carmichael, but she was hurting someone I love.” He slumped.

Dr. Martin looked very thoughtful. Her tone was not accusing when she asked, “How many people have you almost killed, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale blinked at her, thrown. “I—It’s hard to say. When I left Rome before the Gauls invaded, does that count? I let Pompeii be destroyed because of what they did to Crowley; I didn’t try to save them, and I could have. But that could be considered meddling; Pompeii wasn’t direct orders from Heaven, but it was a natural event and therefore Ineffable. I didn’t fight Islington when it sank Atlantis, and I could have—”

Linda gulped a little but seemed to center herself. “You have lived a very long and very interesting life, haven’t you?” she said, wry.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said.

“How about instances where you manipulated humans for your own gain, or otherwise hurt them?” Her voice was still very even, her eyes focused on him. Searching. Searching for what? Was she trying to work out if he was a menace to society?

Aziraphale fidgeted, uncomfortable. He was still trying to work that out, too. He answered honestly. “The men who want to buy my bookshop,” he said slowly. “They wear black suits. I’m fairly convinced they work for the government, but not in a good way, if you understand my meaning. They come every thirty years or so. I tell them to leave, and they leave. I’ve spoken to Mycroft about it, and lately they haven’t been back. The bookshop is my home.”

“You’ve always guarded your bookshop,” Linda said, slowly.

“Yes. That’s my Function, you know. Lucifer has Desire, Amenadiel has Time—they are Archangels. Well. Archangel is something of a general term for all battle-angels; they are technically Seraphs, angels of the highest order. Unique. I was part of a legion. We shared a Function. Guard and Protect.”

“How is it different now, then?”

“It’s stronger,” he said miserably.

“Humans,” she said. “All of us, I mean. Do we fall under that? That Guard and Protect thing?”

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale said earnestly. “Always! It cost me a set of wings, Linda!”

She frowned. “How so?”

“I gave my flaming sword to Eve in the Beginning. The Almighty didn’t seem to mind[1], but Gabriel and Sandalphon certainly did. It earned me my demotion, losing that sword. They removed my hindwings, and I still think it was worth it, to be posted to Earth, to watch over humanity, to know Crowley.” Especially because he had his hindwings back now, strange as that was. He kept smacking them into things, whenever they were out. It was disorienting. 

She smiled at him. “The Angel of the Eastern Gate,” she said, and it sounded fond. “I know that story. That was you?”

“Yes.” He smiled back at her. “I—I slip up sometimes. I am sorry for what I did to you. Forcing someone to do anything is not in anyone’s best interest. I was frightened.” His shoulders slumped. 

“It wasn’t okay,” Linda said, “But I forgive you. We can work on that, on that kind of impulse control, if you want.”

He nodded, relieved. “Alright.”

She smiled at him, and the relief crested like a wave. Oh, no wonder Lucifer liked her. Aziraphale liked her, too.

“What’s Crowley’s Function? Or is that too personal?” Linda asked after a moment. “Just curious.”

“Knowledge,” said Aziraphale. “Sort of. Crowley was a low-level angel in the Hall of Being. He helped Create—he worked on stars and nebulas, you know; that’s how he met Lucifer—but since he was just in the Hall, he doesn’t get grand statements like Desire or Time. Crowley just—knows things. He knows things that you generally also want to know. Temptation doesn’t work without knowledge and he’s a Tempter at heart, really. His is quite subtle, and rather beautiful, I always thought, even if it is infuriating.” He smiled down at his palms. 

“And now he’s frightened of you,” Linda said gently.

“Wary. Like a spooked animal. He put all the snakes back in the mountains, you know. He’s a soft touch. He—he sleeps in the bed with me,” Aziraphale said, halting over the intimate detail. “But he doesn’t come close, not even for warmth.” That hurt the most. He missed his Crowley, snoring softly on his thigh while he read late in the night.

“Has he had any more incidents?” Linda asked.

“No. It was the diadem. Asteroth’s diadem, the silver one, the ouroboros. Lucifer’s cleaning woman stole it, would you believe it? She realized that it was evil and threw it in the trash, rather remarkable, really. But then her daughter stole it from the trash that morning on her way to the university. Apparently it gives mortals power over snakes. Not celestials; just mortals.” He chuckled darkly. “When Raguel destroyed Asteroth, he left the diadem behind. Careless. Divine and Occult objects affect mortals rather dramatically; a perfectly lovely girl can become a monster simply by touching something like that. Marcy Carmichael was frustrated at school. That became murderous the moment she put the diadem on her head. And these things do want to be used; she would have been enchanted right away.” He sighed. She’d killed her lab partner, her worst student, and her professor, as it turned out. Such a tragedy. 

“Where is it now?” Linda asked.

“Lucifer has it,” Aziraphale sighed. “He said something about—Hell-forging it into something new. I think he might give it to Crowley.” The last was growled.

“And that’s—bad?”

“Well it hurt him, didn’t it? And—” this was difficult to admit, but Linda had promised that there was something to this human idea of therapy and if it helped rebuild this bridge that he had burned with her then by Someone he would do it. “—and I’m worried he’ll try to take Crowley back into his employ. Crowley belongs on Earth.”

“With you.” She raised an eyebrow. 

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, that’s at his own discretion but in general terms, yes.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

Aziraphale looked at her for a moment. He felt the weight of the years on his shoulders, and how the future stretched out ahead of him, forever. It was not a bad thing. It was just--an endless thing. He doubted she would understand, but he tried anyway. “We are eternal, Dr. Martin,” he said. “The size and shape of our lives are quite different to yours. In this moment, he lives with me and I with him. Eventually we will drift apart. We always do. And we always find each other again. I will love him and he will love me forever, regardless of whether or not we are _in _love at any given moment. He is my companion, my mortal enemy, always. But as humans will sometimes leave their mates for brief stretches of time, for their jobs or vacations or whatnot, so we will leave each other for decades. Time means less to us. Eternity is a long time to spend together, and absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say[2].”

Linda looked fascinated. Maybe she did understand. “Then why are you so worried that he’s frightened of you? If you’re so sure he’ll come around.”

“I do not want the drift,” Aziraphale said, and his eyes stung. “Not yet. It’s only been three decades. I’m not tired of us yet. It could take a hundred, a thousand years to undo that damage. I don’t want that kind of separation yet.”

“Have you told him this?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I am afraid to.”

Linda smiled at him, kindness personified. “Sounds to me like you’re afraid of each other. Try talking to him. Crowley loves to talk.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh in his hands. “That he does.”

\---

He found Crowley in Raguel’s house with Lucifer. They were standing close together, huddled next to the round table in what passed for Raguel's dining area. Lucifer was saying something, low and soothing. Crowley rocked backwards on his heels, vibrating with what looked like excitement. Raguel was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Watchdog[3].

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, still feeling a little raw from his time with Linda. He took one step towards them and then stopped, a little hesitant. 

Crowley looked away from Lucifer. He met Aziraphale's eyes and his face split into a huge grin. “Angel,” he blurted, more excited than he’d been in days. “Angel, come here, look!”

Confused at the exuberance, Aziraphale made his way to Crowley. “What happened?”

“I’m promoting him,” Lucifer told Aziraphale, soft and sure, and Aziraphale quavered with fear. Lucifer must have read it on his face and added, “Volunteer basis only. No payroll, no benefits, and he doesn’t have to come when I call, though it’s appreciated.” The last he added to Crowley, who grinned at him.

“Look.” Crowley held out something silver.

It looked like an armband, a silver serpent, coiled upwards. It did not eat its tail.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley smiled smugly. “It’s Asteroth’s diadem, reforged. The diadem was an ouroboros, caged for eternity. A servant, forever. This one just coils. Doesn’t eat its tail. It’s free. Like me. He reforged it for me.”

That was, admittedly, rather nice symbolism, Aziraphale thought, though anxiety writhed in his gut. “What is it for?”

“A position of some power,” Lucifer said modestly.

“Left Hand. It’s Left Hand, angel,” Crowley blurted, clearly extremely excited and trying, rather poorly, not to show it. He was darling, and he was forgetting himself in his excitement and Aziraphale missed him like this, missed him terribly. Was he going to lose him to Hell? What about in ten thousand years, when Lucifer was bored of Earth?

“I like the idea of my Left and Right Hands being present by choice, by their own Free Will, rather than through fear or obligation to some archaic hierarchy,” Lucifer said lightly. “And for both of them to have spent significant time on Earth. In fact, I prefer you to _live_ on Earth. Besides, you’re the best adviser I’ve ever had, Crowley,” he added frankly.

Crowley vibrated with the complement. “Right Hand is Mazikeen,” Crowley told Aziraphale, who still felt a little bewildered. He was getting the sense that Left Hand was rather a big deal.

“I’m not going back to Hell,” Crowley added to Aziraphale, who must have looked worried. Aziraphale let out a breath, unnecessary, but it helped. That had indeed been what he was fretting about. 

“I will never order you to do so,” Lucifer told Crowley smoothly, and that was especially comforting. Lucifer did not lie. “You may come or go as you please. And that is a promise, Crowley; it’s written in the inside of the band. Paperwork and administrative duties fall to Belial. Belial is an idiot, so that’s your problem now, but otherwise the most tedious work is not yours.” He looked at Aziraphale and added, “This doesn’t make him mine,” he said. “He keeps his Free Will, always. That is also on the inside of the band.”

That was reassuring. “Always,” Aziraphale echoed softly, on another exhale.

“Good! So that’s done. I have a date tonight. If you’ll excuse me,” Lucifer said, a little awkward, and strode out the door in a swirl of his tailored jacket, practically running away. That was odd. 

Crowley fiddled with the coiled snake.

“It’s an arm band,” Aziraphale said, stating the obvious into the sudden awkward silence.

Crowley nodded. Tentatively, he held it out for Aziraphale to inspect.

Aziraphale took it. The metal was heavy, Hell-forged sliver, rather different than regular silver. Crowley was right; the serpent didn’t eat its tail, and there was no binding magic on it at all. On the inside, words in a language Aziraphale did not know: one of the Hell languages, but beside it, Enochian.

_I come of my own Free Will. I have no master. I stand tall beside my Friend and offer only wisdom. _

That was—rather a nice sentiment, and far kinder than Aziraphale had expected of Lucifer. But then, Lucifer was full of such surprises. “A promotion,” he said. He wondered what the Hell-language said. Was it Lilim? Perhaps it was time he learned it.

“A big one,” Crowley said. “It’s like if Amenadiel made you his—I don’t know, kind of adviser, but his best adviser.”

“I see.” Aziraphale smiled at him warmly. “Congratulations, my dear, that’s wonderful.” He handed back the arm band. “Can I take you to dinner?”

Crowley chewed his lip and didn’t take the band back. “Yes,” he said, eyeing it. “But can you—I mean, would you mind—?” his voice faded.

Frightened. Frightened was the wrong word, really, Aziraphale thought with a pang. Crowley could never truly be afraid of him. But he was spooked. Hesitant, like a second set of wings meant that Aziraphale had undergone a personality change. Like he was stepping lightly and didn’t want to land in the wrong place and break something.

They were drifting apart. He didn’t want to spend a decade apart yet. He wasn’t ready.

“Anything, my dear,” Aziraphale said, just a little wretched.

“Well, there was a ceremony last time,” Crowley blurted. “With Asteroth, you know, and Lucifer’s given up on all that, but Asteroth had a lover. She was one of the Lilim. Inanna. She crowned him, and there was a bunch of other—you know, weird Hell stuff that I want no part of[4] but I thought—” He nodded at the arm band. “Would you—put it on? For me?”

Aziraphale’s heart caught in his throat. “Of course! Of course my dear, always. Is there a hinge, how do I--?” He fiddled with it. There was no hinge. “Do I just slide it on?”

Crowley barked an awkward laugh. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to one side. “No,” he said. “No, it’ll fit itself to me, just, um—” He offered his upper arm, the right one. “Rest it against my arm. It’s probably hexed or something.”

That didn’t sound promising, but Aziraphale did as he was told. The silver snake shivered to life and coiled around Crowley’s arm. It didn’t bite its tail and it didn’t squeeze; Crowley’s freedom wasn’t compromised.

Actually, it looked rather fetching, silver and shining against his skin, like the old days in Greece. It was thin enough that a shirt would fit over it.

“Do you feel any different?” Aziraphale asked anxiously. He hovered a hand over it, unnecessary heart in his unnecessary throat. It Lucifer had lied--if he had bound Crowley--

Crowley flexed his arm. “No,” he said, and Aziraphale exhaled again. Crowley looked up and smiled at him. “Thanks,” Crowley said, still awkward.

No. That was terrible. Aziraphale pulled his hand away, a different sort of anxiety coiling in his gut. “Please stop worrying,” he whispered. “I’m still me. It’s been a week. I swear I’m still me, please stop, I don’t want to lose you yet; you’re breaking my—”

Crowley took off his sunglasses and tossed them aside. “Stop, stop, Somebody, stop—” he lunged forwards into Aziraphale’s arms and Aziraphale caught him, held him hard.

They both gasped into each other’s shoulders at the embrace. A week could feel like an eternity, Aziraphale realized miserably, if Crowley sidled on tender hooks around him the whole time. He’d missed him terribly.

“I know,” Crowley said in a rush. “I know you’re still you. I know. And anyway, I met you as a Cherub, don’t forget that, I wasn’t afraid of you then and I’m not now. I’m worried she won. That that terrible Naomi won. That she—she reverted you or changed you or, or something and it’s not _you_ I’m afraid of, I’m angry that she might have—have _done_ something to you—”

“I twisted it,” Aziraphale said, forehead buried in Crowley’s bare shoulder. He hadn’t as good a sense of smell as Crowley, but that skin still smelled of home. He closed his eyes. “She did what she did, but I twisted it and made it mine. I took it. I changed it. Not her. Me. Because that human hurt you, and I had to stop it.”

“And I stopped you,” murmured Crowley.

“And I listened. I’ll always listen.”

He felt Crowley’s lashes against his neck as he closed his eyes. He hummed softly, a human sound, and Aziraphale thrummed back, low and deep and he meant it with all his heart. Crowley leaned more heavily into him, his hum deepening into something rhythmic and angelic, and far more comforting. 

“No, you won’t, you stubborn bastard,” Crowley said, after his thrum faded into stillness at last. His arms were tight around Aziraphale’s waist.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Tartan is not stylish.”

“_Crowley!_”

Crowley pulled back and smiled, tentative. “I believe I was promised dinner.”

“Oh—you—” Aziraphale spluttered, delighted.

“I’ll drive,” Crowley teased, a little more confident.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale laughed, elated, and followed him, mock-chasing, to the car.

Linda was right, of course, he thought as he got himself into the passenger seat, Crowley’s warm golden eyes watching him with tentative fondness. Of course Linda was right.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said. “Linda said—she said to tell you—I—I don’t want the drift yet. I’m not tired of us yet, I—”

“Me neither,” said Crowley immediately, knowing exactly what he was talking about, of course. “You have like, eight more decades of me at least. And even after, I don’t imagine I’ll stay away for long. Bored with you is better than bored without you.”

Aziraphale chuckled, relieved beyond words. Brilliant Linda. “Me too. Me too. Oh, Crowley, I do love you so.”

“I know,” Crowley replied, the bastard, and they peeled out of Raguel’s garage. Dinner and drinks, and reassurance, and love, and more drinks, and a philosophical debate on something totally inane, awaited. The world wasn’t back to normal yet, Aziraphale thought contentedly, scolding his absurd, darling demon for the speed, but it was getting there. 

________

[1] Well. He’d lied about it, and She hadn’t seemed to mind about that, either. Ineffable.

[2] Aziraphale imagined that their future relationship would look rather like their past relationship, but with more paradoxes and cuddles. Permanence and eternity, relationship-wise, meant breaks, of this he was certain.

[3] Raguel rather liked Watchdog. He was taking her for a nice long walk and thinking about maybe getting a dog. Or ten. 

[4] A LOT of very vicious, very public and bizarre sex, which was why Lucifer had left in a hurry, but Crowley never wanted to make Aziraphale bleed. Or vice versa. Anyway, who knew how Aziraphale would respond, now. But then, that was ridiculous, Crowley reprimanded himself, Aziraphale had been a Cherub when they met! And he had been basically the same! But Naomi, and Aziraphale blankly and calmly attacking that girl, and who knows what had happened in that head of his…  
  
It didn’t matter. He was still Aziraphale, and he was determined to meet him in the middle somehow, like always. And he really did want him to do this; it kind of meant a lot. 


	19. Epilogue

Adam Young was reading.

It was for school, really, and it was Fiction, so fun for fantasy and Not Real, Not Real, Never Real. He liked the book, though it was a little strange, what with the digging holes and all.

One day, Adam would get tired of having to do homework all the time, and time in Tadfield might move forward at a real pace, instead of on a treadmill. Today was not that day. Adam liked being eleven, and so eleven he stayed, without any real effort on his part. All children think they will stay young forever, after all. Adam just happened to believe with oomph, and the land under Tadfield held on to that magic. If you left Tadfield, time might move for you normally. But those who stayed never grew old. Adam had kind of a bone to pick with Death, after all.

It wasn’t so late, but it was dark outside. Dog was asleep at the foot of Adam’s bed while Adam read, lying on his belly and turning pages. Downstairs, he could hear his mother loading the dishwasher, new as of last Christmas. There would be more Christmases, of course. Days and days and weeks and months and whole seasons passed, but time never moved forward, here. 

The clink of the dishes downstairs was comforting, and the book wasn’t bad. All was peace.

“Well then,” said a soft voice, abruptly. “This is interesting.”

Dog’s head shot up. His growl filled the room. Adam closed his eyes and counted to five, because it was definitely another demon in his bedroom, and he was not pleased. He turned over and sat up.

He glared.

“That body doesn’t belong to you,” he said sharply. “What’re you doing in a body that doesn’t belong to you?”

“And who might you be, kiddo?” asked the demon. It was hard to see what he was, for a moment. He was an imp, but there was something—different about him, something overpowered, like he’d charged a bunch of batteries and then eaten them. He was wearing a nondescript man in a white button up shirt and a tie, as well as a graying beard. He wore sunglasses, the way Crowley did. Adam didn’t like that at all.

“You’re from Nightmare World,” Adam said flatly. “You don’t belong here.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” said the man. “I asked to speak to the Nephilim and they sent me to you. What’s your name?”

Adam was fairly certain he was no Nephilim. “I’ll tell you if you tell me who you are,” Adam said slowly.

“Ah! A salesman! I like a salesman. You can really _work_ with a salesman. Alright. The name’s Kipling,” he said, “King of Hell[1]. You?”

“Adam Young,” said Adam. “Antichrist. What are you doing here?”

“Antichrist! They sent me to the Antichrist!” Kipling said, outraged. “I was promised an alternate-Nephilim! _You_ don’t have any power!”

Adam felt the wave of Will that would have slammed him up against the wall. It passed through and around him like a cool breeze. “My world is different,” he said calmly while Dog snarled. “And you don’t belong here. What are you doing here?”

Now he had the demon’s attention. He looked curious, now that his power hadn’t worked. Demons were like that, though. It was annoying. “I want to make a deal,” he said, eyes narrowing. “An alliance. Between my Hell and yours.”

“Lucifer won’t speak to you,” Adam said. “Not while you’re wearing that body._ I_ don’t want to speak to you, while you’re possessing that guy. I think you should get out of him.”

“I beg your pardon? I’m the _damned_ King of Hell, weren’t you listening?”

Adam sat up straighter. “Well, I’m the—the ab’dicated King of Earth, and _I_ say you need to get out of that body, and I won’t talk to you til you do. Now _get out of my bedroom!_”

The self-professed King of Hell hissed and resisted Adam’s command. But at the end of the day he was an imp, and Adam stood on Earth, in Tadfield, where he belonged. Dog lunged, and the demon gave in, disappearing like he’d never been there. Dog’s teeth closed on a snap where the demon’s neck had been.

Adam clenched his fists.

He got out of bed, calmly, and he got his phone. He called his Devil-Dad, because last time he’d told Aziraphale and Aziraphale had been less than helpful. That wasn’t exactly surprising though; he should have known better. The whole reason he liked Aziraphale was because Aziraphale was useless. 

“Adam?” hissed Lucifer. Adam could hear people milling around him; it sounded like he was at his detective’s precinct. “What the hell are you calling me for?”

“The King of Nightmare World Hell just showed up in my bedroom,” Adam said, cross.

“WHAT?” screeched Lucifer. Adam heard the detective splutter at Lucifer nearby. It would have made him smile, except that he was really annoyed. “Adam—are you alright?” This was a little stilted, but Adam appreciated the gesture.

“Not other-you,” Adam said calmly. “An imp named Kipling.”

“Are you _kidding? _An imp? How can an imp be King of Hell?”

“I don’t care. He was possessing a person. Do something about it.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to make a deal, he said. An alliance between our Hell and theirs. I think it’s a terrible idea and that you shouldn’t do it.” He scowled down at Dog.

He could practically hear Lucifer thinking about it. “Not while he’s possessing someone,” he said slowly. “Can’t trust a guy inside another guy without consent.” Adam was pretty sure that was what you call inuendo, and he ignored it. “If he shows up again, sent him to Lux. Where did you send him now?”

“Don’t know. Just sent him.”

Lucifer sighed. “Fair. Did you kick him out of that body?”

Adam smiled into the phone. “’Course.”

“Good lad. Alright. I’ll have Maze and Crowley on the look out, okay? Thanks for—you know. Calling.”

“Get rid of him, Devil-dad,” Adam said darkly. “I didn’t like him. He doesn’t belong here.”

“Noted,” said Lucifer, and Adam hung up, because there was nothing more to say.

Dog was still pacing his bedroom door. Adam felt out of sorts, too. He didn’t like that imp. He didn’t like that imp at all.

He looked back to his book, but he wasn’t in the mood to read it.

They hadn’t read Macbeth in school yet, but Adam had seen it last summer, at Tadfield’s little playhouse. He’d mostly thought it was stupid, because, honestly, just because you were married to someone didn’t mean you had to listen to them. Adam had a Destiny and he’d entirely ignored it. Still, he looked at his book and he said to his Dog, thoughtfully, “I think—I think somethin’ wicked this way comes, boy.”

Dog looked up at him from the other side of his bed and whimpered in agreement. Those holes, Adam thought. They really had to go.

_____

[1] Aspiring king, really, but you don’t just _tell_ people that. Kipling had big plans. After this, he planned to do something about those Winchester boys. Between the alternate world and the Winchesters, he could be flush with powerful allies. He had big plans indeed. 

Things Kipling didn't know: the Winchesters? They didn't exactly cooperate. Crowley, King of Hell*, could have told him that, had he not dropped dead some time ago. Then again, Kipling wouldn't be making this ploy, had he still been alive.   
  
*The imp with the horrible pronunciation that would have made Greater Demon Crowley grit his teeth, had he ever had any sort of interaction with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, guys!! Thanks for your patience and for following along!! I'm working on the next story, where we take care of some of those pesky holes, and meet some Nightmare Friends along the way.... Coming soon! Keep an eye out for (tentatively titled) We Keep on Fighting (Til the End)!


End file.
